


With The River As My Guide

by Aerlalaith



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On shore leave on Earth, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock disappear during a backpacking trip in the mountains.  A month later, Commander Spock is found unconscious and alone in the desert.  Despite Starfleet’s hopes that he will lead them to the still missing Captain Kirk, Spock is unable to recall who took them, why they were taken, and why only he was released.  Worst of all perhaps, he cannot tell them the location of Captain Kirk, or even if he still lives . . . (K/S slash). (Originally posted August 2011).</p>
            </blockquote>





	With The River As My Guide

 

 

  
**Title:** With The River As My Guide  
 **Total Word Count:** ~35K  
 **Summary:** On shore leave on Earth, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock disappear during a backpacking trip in the mountains.  A month later, Commander Spock is found unconscious and alone in the desert.  Despite Starfleet’s hopes that he will lead them to the still missing Captain Kirk, Spock is unable to recall who took them, why they were taken, and why only he was released.  Worst of all perhaps, he cannot tell them the location of Captain Kirk, or even if he still lives . . . (K/S preslash, slash)  
 **Universe:** STXI  
 **Warning:** Some violence, allusions to torture, swearing etc.  
 **Rating:** Mature Content (violence, language)  
   
 **Disclaimer:** Star Trek does not belong to me.  No profit is made, just having some fun.

 

 

  
**Chapter 1**  
   
 **20 May 2262**  
 **Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco.  10:35 am.**  
   
“Commander,” came the voice from the doorway, “Commander Spock.”  Slowly, Spock turned to regard the visitor.  The man sported Starfleet’s science blue and a short red beard.  His balding head was sprinkled with white.   
   
“Doctor,” Spock acknowledged, inclining his head.  He wanted to add, _you are two point three minutes late_ , but that would have been petty.  It would have proved that the man’s tardiness had irritated him.  Irritation was illogical.  
   
“I apologize for running a bit late,” the man said, despite Spock’s lack of comment.  He gestured towards the room.  “Do you mind if I come in?”  
   
“Not at all,” Spock replied.  He kept his hands in his lap as the doctor moved past the doorway and sank into a chair at the other end of the desk.  The man cleared his throat.  
   
“As I am sure you are . . . aware, Commander,” he began a bit awkwardly, “Starfleet Command has requested that I interview you about what happened in the weeks between the time the authorities and Starfleet lost track of you and Captain Kirk, and when you were found.  
   
“Understood,” Spock said.  He kept his face neutral.  “However Doctor, what I have to tell you is no different from what I told the admiralty once I had,” he hesitated, “become lucid.”  
   
“Yes, I remember,” the man muttered, reaching into his old fashioned briefcase for a PADD, “You said you were unable to recall—”  
   
“Doctor,” Spock interrupted.  “I am unable to recall anything regarding the intervening time between when the Captain and I departed for shoreleave, and when I awoke in Starfleet Medical.”  
   
“Yes, I see,” the man said again.  He bit the inside of his lip, a nervous gesture that did not escape Spock’s notice.  “So there’s nothing, then.”  
   
“Nothing,” Spock echoed.  He raised an eyebrow.  “No offense meant Doctor, but I do not see the logic in Starfleet’s request that you interview me.  In matters such as these, if the admiralty has not obtained the answers they seek, it is their practice to question their remaining witnesses themselves.”  
   
“Yes, but Commander, they’ve already asked you about it,” the doctor said, letting out a weak smile.   
   
“Irrelevant,” Spock said.  “Starfleet command would have no qualms about questioning me a second time.  They know I must answer their queries to the best of my ability.”  
   
Something flickered in the doctor’s eyes.  He shifted his feet.  “I guess they’re just trying a new approach this time.”  
   
“Curious,” Spock observed.  
   
The man was obviously uncomfortable by now, a bit of sweat prickling at his forehead, his fingers tugging at his collar in a manner eerily reminiscent of Dr. McCoy.  “Not nearly as curious as your lack of memory regarding this incident, Commander,” he said.  “You’re absolutely positive you can’t recall _anything_?  Anything at all?”  
   
“Apologies, Doctor, but I cannot.”  
   
Spock could tell that his interviewer was working hard to contain his discomfort, as well as his disappointment, as he squared his shoulders.  “That is most unfortunate, Commander.”  
   
“Indeed,” Spock said.  
   
“We have people on the ground and in the air looking of course,” the doctor continued.  “However, given our lack of success in finding either of you two before your lucky appearance, it seems doubtful that we will locate your abductors any time in the near future.  We were hoping . . .” he trailed off for a moment, then shook his head.  “We were hoping that your firsthand account might give us some sort of clue.”  
   
“I understand,” Spock said.  “If my memory does chance to return, believe me Doctor, I will make the information known.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------- 

“They think you’re crazy.”  
   
Spock raised an eyebrow.  “You believe Starfleet command doubts my mental faculties?”  
   
McCoy grunted, shoving a pile of PADDs over to the side of the desk in a vague attempt at neatness.  It did not make much of a difference in the overall aestheticism, Spock noted.  The entire place was still most unkempt.  
   
“Doctor Valdez did not give me reason to assume that Starfleet thought such a thing,” Spock said.  He eyed McCoy, whose head was almost completely immersed in one of the desk drawers he was rooting through.  
   
“They’re not going to come right out and _say_ it, Spock,” came McCoy’s voice.  “You don’t just go out and tell a crazy man he’s crazy.”  
   
Spock pondered that for a moment.  “Perhaps if a human was informed of his apparent insanity, it might cause an adverse – and likely violent  -- emotional reaction,” he allowed.   
   
“Yeah, and you’re a Vulcan and you should be able to handle it – I _know_ Spock.  I swear, the whole universe knows you’re a Vulcan.”  
   
“Unlikely,” Spock said, “As there is a very low probability of any sentient beings outside our galaxy being aware of the Federation, much less its founding members.  A small section of one galaxy does not equal the universe, Doctor.  And of course,” he continued, “It would be necessary to multiply that probability by the probability that a single person might know of me personally—”  
   
“For god’s sake do you always have to be so goddamn literal about everything?” McCoy rolled his eyes.  “They sent Starfleet’s best psychiatrist to question you.  According to Command at least, you’ve lost your goddamn marbles.”  
   
Spock’s eyebrows creased.  “I find a flaw in your logic doctor,” he announced finally.  
   
“What?”  
   
Spock shook his head, “I have never owned any marbles.”  
   
The silence thickened.  
   
McCoy stared at him.  “That’s the worst attempt at a joke I’ve ever heard in my life.”  
   
Spock’s shoulders slumped imperceptibly.  “Perhaps,” he said, “it is the timing rather than our . . . than my attempt at your human humor, that is poor.”  
   
McCoy blinked at him for a moment, then looked away.  “Maybe,” he said.  “Spock, are you—”  
   
“Doctor,” Spock said, “I am beginning to find myself fatigued.  Perhaps we may continue this discussion at another time?”  
   
“Bullshit,” McCoy said.  
   
“It is not,” Spock said, a little more forcefully.   
   
McCoy gave him a hard look, ‘Yeah right, Spock.  I didn’t want to mention it right off your interview, but you look like hell.  Are you _sure_ you’re all right?  Maybe you should still be back at the hospital.”  
   
“The colloquialism ‘all right,’ has many definitions, Doctor,” Spock said.  
   
“Damn it Spock, you know what I mean,” McCoy said.  He shoved his desk drawer closed.  Spock watched as he stood.  He looked for a moment like he was about to put a hand on Spock shoulder, but then thought better of it and instead tucked his hands in his pockets.  When he spoke, his voice was gentler than before.  “Are you all right?”   
   
There was silence.  Eventually, Spock opened his mouth.  “The colloquialism ‘all right,’ has many definitions,” he said again.  “However,” he looked down, and then back up at McCoy, “I find that I do not fulfill any one of them.”  
   
“Oh Spock,” McCoy said.  He covered his eyes with his hand as he sat back down in his chair.  “Jesus.”  
   
“Really doctor, antiquated religious figures from Earth’s past have no place in this conversation.”  
   
“Fucking . . . would you stop it?” McCoy said.  “Just . . . stop.”  
   
“Explain.”  
   
“Look Spock, I studied psychiatry too, you know.  Pretending to act normal isn’t going to make things normal.”  
   
“And I must repeat, Doctor, that I find myself fatigued.  Given the situation, I believe it is your own orders that I must follow.”  He turned to go, back ramrod straight.  “I shall retire to meditate.”  
   
“Sure, Spock,” McCoy sighed.  “Go get some rest.”

 

_Vulcans did not dream.  They had too much control for that.  If necessary, with concentration and much training, they could experience lucid dreams and walk the world unfettered even by the laws of physics, safe in the contours of their own minds –sleeping, and yet aware._  
   
 _Spock knew this, but he still could not classify what he was experiencing as anything else but a dream._  
   
 _He wandered without control over his own body, peering through a world that seemed to be covered in a light layer of fog.  Jim, the Captain, was there.  Spock knew he was there.  His legs brought him over to a wall constructed of thick, unyielding stone.  The smallest bit of light caught the twinkle of muscovite and darker, round garnets._  
   
 _“Jim,” he said.  “Captain.”  His voice did not echo much.  He was outside, then.  Logical, if there was fog._  
   
 _“Where are you?” he said.  “Captain, it is time to return to the ship.”_  
   
 _There was a plant growing next to the wall.  Spock knelt to look at it.  Two opposite leaves, serrated, pairs spiraling around the stem.  The flowers were small and pink, dozens of them clustered at the top, forming a stalk._  
   
 _Spock frowned.  Without knowing why, he stretched his hand forward to grasp one of the leaves, tearing it from the stem.  He popped it in his mouth and chewed._  
   
Spock opened his eyes.  He appeared to have fallen asleep during his meditation.  Internally, he frowned.  He had not slept during a meditation since early childhood.  He reached for the communicator.  
   
“Spock to McCoy.”  
   
“Spock, why the hell are you awake?”  
   
“Dr. McCoy, you must inform Starfleet command that they should concentrate their search in temperate zones, between twenty three and sixty degrees latitude for both north and south.”  
   
“What?  Why?”  
   
“Because that, Doctor, is where mint flourishes best.”  
   
There was silence at the other end of the communicator.  Finally, McCoy’s voice crackled through.  “Are you telling me that you remembered something?”  
   
Spock closed his eyes.  “Not . . . a memory.  More of an impression as I slept.”  
   
“I thought you were going to meditate.”  
   
“I did meditate.  I also slept.”  
   
McCoy snorted.  “Ha, I bet you fell asleep.”  
   
“The mint, Doctor,” Spock said, impatience beginning to mark itself in his voice.  
   
“No need to get ornery Commander, I’m pretty damn good at multitasking.  The communication’s already been sent out.  Want to tell me more about this dream of yours?”  
   
“Vulcans do not dream,” Spock said.  “I . . .” he trailed off.  
   
“What?” McCoy asked.  
   
“I find,” Spock shook his head, “I find that the impression is already beginning to fade,” he confessed.  “I cannot,” there was a brief pause, and then he continued.  “I still cannot remember.  I am forgetting again this is,” he breathed, “most illogical.  I don’t think I am capable of informing you about anything more than my earlier statement about the mint.”  
   
McCoy wondered what Spock’s voice would have sounded like without that Vulcan control.  
   
“Listen, Spock,” he said, reigning in his irritation at being woken in the middle of the first vague attempt at sleep in the past few weeks.  “Maybe this is a sign of your returning memory.  Maybe it’s just going to manifest itself this way for a while.  Why don’t you meditate some more – or sleep on it, although god forbid that you ever actually _sleep_ like a normal person – and, if you have more dreams – sorry, _impressions_ — write them down before they fade.”

“You are suggesting that I keep a,” Spock struggled for a moment with the colloquialism, “a dream journal, are you not?”  
   
“Sure,” McCoy’s voice had adopted a wheedling quality to it.  “Then later, you can analyze the different, ah, _impression_ entries for patterns.  Links.  Something that might jog your memory back.  It’s the best we can do before we can get another Vulcan healer to have a look at you, at any rate.”  
   
Spock thought for a moment.  “I had omitted that possible angle in my considerations,” he admitted.  “I shall think about it.”

 

_Spock’s back was cold, wedged uncomfortably against the hard stone of the room.  The floor was just as bad, but his front was warm, his arms wrapped around the captain, personal space sacrificed for the lean possibility of rest against the bitter chill._  
   
 _“I promise not to tell anyone about the spooning,” Jim’s voice mumbled.  “I’ll just let them assume that we were manly about the whole thing and didn’t freeze to death because we kept warm by doing jumping jacks and pushups every ten minutes and never slept.”_  
   
 _“That would quickly become tiresome,” Spock replied after a moment.  “Perhaps Tai Chi, or something else of a less aerobic nature?”_  
   
 _Jim snorted and shifted a little.  Spock loosened his arms to allow the movement, and Jim settled again soon enough._  
   
 _“You ever do Tai Chi?”_  
   
 _Spock nodded reflexively, even as he realized that the Captain could not see the movement behind him.  “Upon my enrollment in Starfleet, I was required to take several physical education courses,” Spock said.  “Due to my . . . greater strength and dislike of touch, I chose to spend a semester practicing Tai Chi, rather than participate in a contact sport.”_  
   
 _“You’re touching me,” Jim pointed out._  
   
 _“I am endeavoring to prevent hypothermia,” Spock replied._  
   
 _“Touché,”_  
   
 _A moment of quiet._  
   
 _“You could have done swim team,” Jim suggested blandly._  
   
 _Spock chose not to dignify that with an answer._  
   
 _“Hey, you know how they divide events up by gender?  Like, men’s two hundred meter backstroke, women’s one hundred butterfly and all?  Do they divvy it up by species too? Like, Individual Medley, Deltans only so clear the pool, or Vulcan fifty meter breast stroke, or—”_  
   
 _“No,” Spock said flatly._  
   
 _“No?”_  
   
 _“There are no Vulcans on the Starfleet Academy swim team.”_  
   
 _Jim gave a humph.  “Well, clearly that’s because you abandoned them to go practice your Tai Chi.”_  
   
 _Spock raised an eyebrow, “As soon as we return, I shall endeavor to convey my sincere apologies to the Starfleet Academy swim team for costing them the chance of certain victory in the nonexistent, Vulcan fifty meter breast stroke event.”_  
   
 _“I’ll hold you to it,” Jim said solemnly._  
   
 _“Naturally, Captain.”_  
   
 _“Seriously though,” Jim said, “I could use a Jacuzzi.  Or a nice hot bath.  Or a shower.”_  
   
 _“Yes,” Spock agreed._  
   
 _Jim elbowed him in the ribs.  “You don’t exactly smell like a bed of roses either, Mr. Spock.”_  
   
 _“Captain, if I were ever to cross paths with a Vulcan giving off the scent of Terran flora, my first course of action would be to contact Starfleet Command and inform them of a potential spy in our midst.  Vulcans most certainly never smell of roses.”_  
   
 _“Yeah, I noticed,” Jim drawled.  He shifted again.  “You’re actually quite comfortable for a pillow though,” he said.  “I’d have thought you’d be bonier.”_  
   
 _“I am gratified you think so,” Spock said.  He loosened his hold in resignation as the Captain squirmed again.  “I am sorry to say that as a blanket you leave much to be desired.  I have never encountered one so mobile before.”_  
   
 _Jim let out a slightly guilty laugh.  “Well, guess I win out on this one then.”  He rested his head back against Spock.  “If anyone asks though,” he said, pausing for a second to yawn, “I’m the Captain, so I was the big spoon.”_  
   
Spock’s eyes snapped open, and even as his hand reached out and fumbled for the PADD on his desk, his mouth was forming words already beginning to be lost in the whispers of a dream,  
   
“Illogical Jim, I am taller.”

\----------------------------------------------------------  
   
“Do you remember if they ever told you why they kidnapped two Starfleet officers?”  
   
Spock closed his eyes.  “I-”  
   
 _“. . . Disgusting, unnatural, abomination . . .”_  
   
“They were not interested in Starfleet officers.”  
   
“You believe the entire episode was just one unfortunate coincidence?”  
   
 _“You know Spock, you know.  I think, maybe, they don’t like us very much.  Just, this feeling I get.  Call it intuition or some shit but—”_  
   
 _“Captain, you are bleeding.”_  
   
 _“Yeah, I noticed.  You know what’s funny, Spock?  That I just realized?”_  
   
 _“Captain, please.  You need to lie down.”_  
   
 _“People always use the phrase ‘coppery tang’ when referring to blood right?  Human blood.  Right?  But ha, you’re the one with the copper-based green blood – ours is iron based!  Isn’t that interesting?”_  
   
“No, I do not believe that it was a coincidence.”  
   
Dr. Valdez tilted his head a little.  “No?”  
   
“No,” Spock said.  “I cannot recall much, but I can say with a 96.3% certainty that it was specifically the captain and I that they were after.”  
   
 _Filthy, unnatural, disgusting._  
   
Dr. Valdez typed something into the small computer he held on his lap.  “That’s a pretty high percentage, considering.  Do you know or, can you remember why you believe that so strongly?”  
   
Spock hesitated.  “They knew who we were.”  
   
Dr. Valdez eyed him for a moment, and then leaned forward.  “Commander, a great deal of people – especially here on Earth – know who you and Captain Kirk are.  Your faces are quite famous.”  
   
“Yes,” Spock said.  “I am aware.”  
   
“Then you believe they kidnapped you two with the specific intent to capture Captain James Kirk and Commander Spock?  Did they want security codes?  Intelligence?  You never mentioned any of this before.”  
   
“I do not believe,” Spock’s eyes shifted a little, “I do not believe that they were after Starfleet intelligence.”  
   
Dr. Valdez let out a slow breath through his teeth.  He ran a hand over his head.  “What did they want, then?”  
   
Spock stared at the wall past Valdez’s shoulder.  “They knew who we were,” he repeated.  “And they knew who we were – to each other.”  
   
“Your teamwork is as legendary as your faces.”  
   
“No.”  
   
Dr. Valdez looked up from his typing.  “No?”  
   
“Our teamwork was not what they were interested in.”  Spock knows this.  He isn’t quite sure how, or why he knows, but it is fact.   Likely, he is compromised.  
   
“Then what _were_ they interested in, Commander?” Valdez said, his face a mask of the kind of patience reserved for the very young or the very insane.  
   
Spock is not insane.  He is just . . . compromised.  
   
“I cannot remember.”  
[  
](http://aerlalaith.livejournal.com/59598.html#cutid1)

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

  
**Chapter 2**  
   
 **8 April 2262**  
 **One month & six days before Spock is discovered in the desert **  
   
“You’re going _where_ again, Uhura?”  
   
“I am going, _Captain_ , to spend a week of my shore leave in Japan.  Which I’ve already mentioned to you at least three times.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Kirk waved his hand, and leaned across the mess table.  “But remind me – exactly what specific activities are you planning on participating in?”  
   
Patience, Uhura decided, was overrated.  “I’ve already told you that I’m staying at a hot spring,” she snapped.  “Really Captain, do we have to go over this again?”  
   
Kirk turned to Spock, “On the Japanese archipelago,” he said solemnly, “hot spring time is communal naked time.”  He paused.  “It’s a cultural thing.”  
   
Spock raised an eyebrow.  
   
“It’s like a spa,” Uhura said through gritted teeth, “and the cherry blossoms are supposed to be absolutely beautiful there this time of year – people come from all over the alpha quadrant to see them.”  
   
Kirk nodded.  “So basically,” he said to Spock, “Lieutenant Uhura is going to be naked with other people and look at flowers for a week.  And this is why she must decline our invitation to go backpacking in the Cascade Mountains.”  
   
Spock tilted his head.  “Lieutenant Uhura’s shore leave plans sound quite like something she would enjoy.  I am unsure if this ‘backpacking’ of yours Captain, is an activity she would take as much pleasure in.  Is not the way one spends shore leave up to the individual in question?”  
   
“Thank you, Spock,” Uhura said, at the same time as Kirk fixed him with a glare and said,  
   
“Flowers, Spock.  Really?”  
   
“If I had not already agreed to accompany you Captain, I myself would not be adverse to experiencing the famous cherry blossoms of Earth’s Japanese islands.  I have heard that they are quite the delicacy to the Vulcan palette.”  
   
Uhura’s face suddenly took on a bit of a pained expression, while Kirk tried valiantly to hold back a snicker.  
   
“Maybe it’s best you’re going with the captain,” she said, rising to dump her tray in the receptacle.  “I don’t really think the hot spring attendants would take too well to having someone eat all their flowers.”  
   
Kirk lost the battle to keep a straight face, and let out a hearty guffaw. “That’s something I would pay to see,” he said, smacking Spock on the shoulder.   
   
Spock’s eye twitched.  “Captain,” he said.  
   
Kirk winked at him.  “Sorry Commander,” he said lightly, not sounding the least bit apologetic.  
   
“Jim do you— for god’s sake, could you quit flirting with your first officer for the one damn minute it would take you to answer your communicator?”  
   
“Bones!” Kirk said, placing a hand on his chest in mock agony.  “Really, you wound me.  Spock and I do not _flirt_.”  
   
“No,” McCoy deadpanned.  “You flirt and Spock, for some unfathomable reason, tolerates it.”  
   
“Now really, _Leonard_ ,” Kirk said, letting the name slide off the edge of his tongue with just the hint of a drawl.  McCoy scowled.  “Spock and I are buddies.  We are manly soulmates.  After four years of saving each others’ asses we’re— what was that word you used again, Spock?”  
   
“Brothers,” Spock supplied resignedly.  “Although I have considered disowning you on several occasions – most often when you are behaving like this.  It is quite outside regulation, Captain.”  
   
Kirk’s hand flew to his mouth, “Spock!” he admonished, “Bros before apropos!”  
   
“What did you even just say,” said McCoy.  
   
Kirk’s face squished, “Or is that supposed to be ‘bros before hoes?’” He turned back towards Spock, “These late twentieth century colloquialisms always tend to escape me.”  
   
“The second option would be correct, Captain." Spock faced McCoy.  “In case you were unaware Doctor, the phrase ‘bros before hoes’ is of late twentieth century origin; the meaning—”  
   
“That’s fine, Spock.  Listen Jim, I can’t go with you on shore leave this time,”  
   
Kirk blinked, his smile fading.  “What?  Why not?”  
   
McCoy sighed, running his hand through his hair.  “John Hopkins Medical School has offered to fund a pet project of mine if I run a series of xeno-biology seminars for them, give a few presentations, you know . . .” he trailed off.  
   
“But Bones!” Kirk protested, “This is shore leave!  That’s work!  It’s an anathema!”  
   
“Yeah Jim, I know I’d be giving up leave, but I just don’t know how else to get the funding, to be honest.  This is the best option I’ve had in weeks.”  
   
“Cannot Starfleet Medical—” Spock attempted to interject, but McCoy shook his head.  
   
“Starfleet medical won’t fund worth shit— at least not until it’s been proved worthwhile a thousand times over.” He turned back towards Kirk, “I’m sorry Jim, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”  
   
Kirk shrugged as he eyed McCoy.  “Well,” he said, a shadow of his earlier smile flickering on his face.  “Just so long as Spock and I get a cut of whatever fantastic discovery you’re about to make.”  
   
McCoy’s eyes bulged a little, “You’ll do no such thing!” he announced, and swatted playfully at the captain’s head.”   
   
Kirk laughed as he ducked, but it sounded odd to Spock’s ears.  “Get out of here Bones,” he said.  “Don’t you have a presentation or something to be working on?”  
   
“Sure do,” McCoy said, sobering a bit.  As Kirk turned away to eye the pastry on Chekov’s plate, McCoy’s eyes met Spock’s and the doctor raised a vaguely threatening eyebrow at him, jerking his chin in Kirk’s direction.    
   
Spock inclined his head.  
   
McCoy straightened.  “Well now,” he said, patting Kirk on the shoulder.  “I reckon Spock here will be enough to keep you out of trouble.”  
   
“For fuck’s sake Bones, I’ve been captaining this ship for four years.  I think I know how to stay out of trouble on shore leave on my own planet.”  
   
“Like hell you do,” McCoy muttered, just as Spock replied with a,  
   
“Quite the contrary, Captain.  The last time you took shore leave on Earth you sustained multiple injuries whilst on your trip to the Eurasian continent.”  
   
“Yeah but Spock, I was just participating in the annual Spanish Bull Run.  Injuries are part of the package.”  
   
“You were almost gored by a goddamn bull,” McCoy interrupted, shaking his head.  And you only escaped by the seat of your pants.  Literally.  When you tripped off a ledge to escape and your pants caught on—”  
   
“Didn’t we agree that we were never going to talk about the part where all of Spain now knows I own boxers with _Everyone Loves a Farmboy_ printed all over them?  Didn’t we agree to that?  I seem to recall signing contracts in blood.”  
   
“Ha,” McCoy snorted.  “As if.”  
   
Kirk waved him away, “Go away Bones,” he said, “You’re ruining my reputation.”  
   
“Oh, are we talking about your questionable taste in underwear again, Captain?” Uhura queried, sidling up to Spock.   
   
“Vipers,” Kirk mourned, covering his face with his hands.  “Vipers I nursed at my tender bosom.”  
   
“—Captain, technically you do not—”  
   
“—Jesus, Jim.  You’re such a drama queen sometimes—”  
   
“—The day I let you nurse me at your bosom is the day I kick your—”  
   
“See what I mean?” Kirk said to a passing ensign.  “Vipers.”  The ensign nodded dutifully, then made her escape when Kirk pointed at Uhura.  “Didn’t you leave?”  
   
Uhura shrugged.  “Since I’m off duty, I decided to come back for a slice of chocolate cake.  Saw Scotty eating one and couldn’t get my mind off it.”  
   
“Which?” Kirk asked.  “I mean— Scotty or the cake?”  
   
Uhura glared at him.  Then smirked a little as she produced a plate with the aforementioned cake from behind her with a flourish.  “Mmm,” she murmured.  “Delicious.”  
   
“Don’t even think about it,” McCoy rumbled, as Kirk bit his lip.  Kirk scowled.  
   
“Aww, come on Bones!”  
   
“I mean it Jim, you’re still recovering from food poisoning on Andoria, which means _I_ get to set your diet.  _No_ refined sugars, they’ll make you relapse.  Besides,” he added, poking Kirk in the side, “A little dieting won’t hurt those love handles that’ve been developing over the past few months.”  
   
Kirk squirmed at the touch and flushed at the comment, “I’m in perfectly good shape,” he said.  
   
“Could be better,” said McCoy.  
   
“Who asked you to judge?”  
   
“My contract,” McCoy said with aplomb.  And then, with what could only be described as a singularly evil grin, he stabbed a fork into the cake and brought it to his lips.  And ate it.  Right in front of Kirk.  Smacking his lips and everything.  The bastard.  
   
Kirk’s eye twitched, but before he could open his mouth to say something sufficiently scathing, Spock stood, and gently touched his shoulder.  Startled, Kirk looked up at him.  
   
“Come, Captain,” he said.  “We’re needed on the Bridge.”  
   
   
 **10 April 2262**  
   
“Spock, I still can’t believe that after living in San Francisco for so long, you never actually went to Yosemite, or to the Redwoods.”  
   
“Nevertheless, Captain.  The fact remains that I did not.”  Spock was bent over his borrowed backpack, fingering one of the buckles with something that might have passed for perplexity.  After a moment, he straightened and crossed his arms.   
   
Kirk glanced up at him from where his was sprawled on the floor next to his own pack.  “Something wrong?”  
   
Spock’s eyes shifted a little.  “I am failing to find the logical purpose in one bag containing so many superfluous outer straps.”  
   
Kirk laughed.  
   
“It is not logical,” Spock almost snapped, arms still folded in front of his chest.

Kirk nodded, trying to swallow his grin.  Spock narrowed his eyes at him.  
   
“You find this humorous.”  
   
Kirk shook his head, eyes crinkled at the edges.  “No, no,” he said.  “I can see why you’re frustrated.”  
   
Spock drew himself up imperiously.  “Vulcans do not get frustrated,” he said.  And then ruined the entire effect by snagging the little baggie abandoned on the floor by Kirk’s feet, breaking it open, and popping a handful of trail mix into his mouth.  
   
Kirk’s smile faded, “Hey, that was my bag of mix!  You’ve got your own!”  
   
Spock shoveled another handful into his mouth, “I find the foodstuffs in this bag to be more palatable than my own.”  
   
Still seated, Kirk made a wild grab for the bag, but Spock easily held it out of his reach.  
   
“You’re eating all the chocolate chips!” Kirk whined.  
   
Spock stepped back a little, still chewing.  “As I cannot have chocolate chips in my own bag,” he noted almost absently, “I fail to see why you should be allowed any in yours.  As such, I am simply making our bags equal.”  His look turned as sly as a Vulcan illicitly stuffing his face full of ill-gotten chocolate chips could manage.  “I am certain that Dr. McCoy would approve.”  
   
Kirk swore and leveled himself off the floor.  He advanced on Spock, scowling.  “Give,” he said, holding out his palm.  
   
Spock eyed his outstretched hand.  “Of course, Captain,” he said, and then deliberately placed a single chocolate chip onto the center of Kirk’s palm.   
   
Kirk stared at it in disbelief, and then snorted, shaking his head again, and put the chocolate chip to his mouth.  “Fine,” he said, swallowing.  “Keep your plunder.  Remind me never to argue with a Vulcan when chocolate chips are on the line.”  
   
“Really Captain,” Spock said.  “Vulcans do not argue.”  
   
“Oh?” said Kirk.  “Could’ve fooled me.  What do you call what we’ve been doing on the bridge every day for the past four years?”  
   
“Debate,” said Spock.   
   
Kirk laughed again.  
   
   
 **11 April 2262**  
   
Spock, Kirk quickly discovered, was not meant for long hovercar trips.  It wasn’t that he whined about _when they were getting there_ and _I have to GO_ and all the usual things that made poor passengers poor.  In fact at first glance, he was the model of the perfect passenger.  Being Spock, he was able to sit for hours on end, nose in his PADD, and not say a peep or move a muscle, except for when he tapped the screen on his PADD, or switched the knob on the radio ( _“I am unable to understand why you must insist on calling it a radio when it no longer even operates on radio waves”)_ to a lower volume.  
   
And that, Kirk thought, was exactly the problem.  
   
“Spock,” he said after a good three hours of low-volume rock and roll (a _crime_ ), and complete silence from his companion.  “If you’re not going to let me turn up the radio, would it kill you to at least talk to me?”  
   
Spock blinked as he looked up from his PADD.  “Would that not distract you from driving?”  
   
Kirk blew air out in-between his teeth.  “No,” he said.  
   
Silence.  
   
Kirk reached over in short jerky motions to turn the radio up.  The steady thump of a base and the long whine of a guitar filled the car.  Spock’s long fingers inched towards the knob, but as soon as they made contact, Kirk swatted his hand.  Spock stiffened.  
   
“Captain,” he said, drawing in a breath.  
   
“Look out the window, Spock,” Kirk said.  
   
“But,” Spock said.  “My research—”  
   
Without looking away from the road, Kirk reached beside him, plucked the PADD unerringly out of Spock’s startled hands, and tossed it in the back seat.  Spock gave a very stoic wince when the piece of machinery bounced from the seat onto the floor.  His eyes narrowed every so slightly, but before he could open his mouth to describe to Kirk (at great length) what, exactly he thought of this ridiculously illogical behavior and blatant disrespect for the property of others, not to mention their property— he was distracted by the gentle touch of Kirk’s hand on his elbow.  He looked down.  
   
“Look out the window, Spock,” Kirk said.  And, somewhat at a loss as Kirk withdrew his fingers from Spock’s person, he did.  
   
And he looked.  And looked.  And could not tear his eyes away.  Outside the hovercar window there was a forest.  The first things that caught Spock’s notice were the trees; towering giants stood sentinel on either side of the road as far as the eye could see, their branches sweeping low to gently touch ferns and other underbrush crowding the forest floor, in innumerable shades of green and brown.  Sunlight speckled down through the canopy, turning dark strands of lichen into gold, and creating shadows for red-breasted birds to dart.   
   
Unnoticed by his companion, Kirk slowly turned the radio to a low buzz and then silence, slowing the vehicle.  As it halted, Spock nearly jerked in surprise as he tore his gaze away from outside, and back to Kirk.   
   
“We haven’t quite reached the redwoods yet,” Kirk said.  “But I think the stretch of woods along this road is kind of nice too.”  He put his hand hesitantly on the door handle.  “Want to step outside for a sec?”  
   
Spock nodded, and in a moment they were out, boots crunching on the unrefined gravel on the shoulder of the road until the sound gave way to the duller tones of earth underfoot.  Spock stooped to investigate a plant whose small white flowers perched on top of green stalks, the petals turned back to expose the stamen.  Kirk crouched down too.   
   
“Look,” he pointed at the flower’s leaves.  “They look like little bird feet.”  
   
“Indeed,” Spock said.  He stood straight again.  “I believe this to be a variety of _Vancouveria hexandra_ , known by the common name ‘inside-out flower.’  It is native to the Pacific Northwest region of the continent.”  
   
Kirk blinked at him, then looked down at the little white flowers.  “I guess,” he said a bit dubiously.  Spock let out a breath of air that, on anyone else, might have qualified as the barest hint of a sigh.  
   
“It is also known by the more colloquial name of ‘Duckfoot.’” he said.  
   
At this, Kirk’s face split into a grin.  “I like that name better.”  
   
“Undoubtedly,” Spock said dryly.  He rotated slowly to regard one of the trees, craning his neck up, up, up to where the tip of the tree was barely visible.  Kirk watched him, a small smile playing around the corner of his lips.   
   
“I’ve heard that the trees around here are some of the tallest on the planet,” he said.  
   
Spock nodded, “It is, I admit, a source of fascination to me that humans have managed to preserve such specimens throughout their turbulent history.”  
   
“Yeah,” Kirk said.  “Kind of surprises me too, to be honest.”   
   
They lapsed into quiet again, breathing in the forest air.  
   
Though there was little silence to be found in the middle of spring, there were no words between them and the absence of speech, exchanged instead for the twittering of birdcall, rustling of branches, and the tinkling of a small creek somewhere nearby, settled a peaceful cloak over the atmosphere.  
   
After a minute or so, Kirk rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms behind his back.  “Well,” he said briskly, “time to get back on the road I guess.”  He nudged a little at a motionless Spock.  “Spock?”  
   
“Yes, Captain?” Spock replied automatically, still entranced with the scenery in front of him.  
   
“It’s time to go,” Kirk said.  
   
Spock nodded, “Of course.  Although . . .” he darted a glance towards the hovercar.  Kirk crossed his arms.  
   
“What?”  
   
“It is a shame,” Spock said, adopting a slightly more rigid stance than he had used previously, “that I am unable to utilize my tricorder to take readings of the surrounding area.”  
   
Kirk rolled his eyes, grabbing Spock’s shirtsleeve, and tugging.  “Come on, Spock,” he said.  “You can take readings on our way back.”  
   
“But Captain,” Spock protested, although he allowed himself to be hauled back in the direction of the hovercar.  “I must admit some curiosity regarding the plant species particular to this region—”  
   
“We’re going to pass by it again, Spock.  I’ll even lock the coordinates into the ‘car system so we’ll know exactly where to stop.”  
   
“But,”  
   
“And I’m sure it says somewhere in your PADD if you can eat the Duck Flower.”  
   
“Duckfoot,” Spock corrected, exerting extra control to avoid flushing at the Captain’s accusation.  “And consuming the flower was not my intention.”  
   
“Of course not, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, opening the ‘car door for him and giving his first officer’s shoulder a bit of a shove inside.  “But,” he said, once they were both buckled in and the low hum of the engine had started up again.  “If you are hungry, there’s a cooler in the back.”  
   
“I had no intention of consuming the flower,” Spock muttered again, and tried to look as serene as possible, gazing out the window at the small white blossoms they were leaving behind.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Chapter 3**

  
**23 May 2262**  
 **0640 hours**  
   
 _A woman with pale hair watched the three children cavort around a park.  Spock estimated the two boys to be approximately five and nine years of age, the girl in the middle.  The woman turned to him, and Spock was startled to see the gentle smile on her face, green eyes full of affection.  Affection for him.  She reached for his hand and he let her, helpless to move his own body.  But the clasp of hands, so intimate a touch to a Vulcan, did not cause his breath to hitch, his body to warm with the thoughts of another.  It just felt like  . . . touch.  Normal, shielded, touch.  And then he gasped, willing to tear his arm away.  His shields were down!  When—_  
   
Spock awoke, his heart thumping in his side.  He closed his eyes, willing his body to relax.  He was unable to contain a flutter of relief when he discovered his mental shields stood as firm as they had since he was a child.  He exhaled, steepling his fingers on his chest, and dove into the blissful unawareness of deep meditation.  
   
At oh eight hundred hours precisely, Spock commed Dr. McCoy who, after the expected grumblings, agreed to meet him in his Starfleet base quarters.  
   
“I had visions of a woman in the night,” Spock said, watching with interest as McCoy spat out the coffee he had just gulped.  
   
McCoy swore, dabbing his shirtfront with a napkin.  “Jesus, Spock,” he said, “That’s got to be the last thing I expected to hear from you.  I don’t need to know about your private fantasies.”  
   
Spock cocked his head.  “Ah,” he said, after a moment of comprehension.  “You are under the impression that this woman and I engaged in coitus— Doctor, are you quite well?”  
   
“I’m fine, fine,” McCoy wheezed, face turning an alarming shade of red.  “Go on.”  
   
“You are certain?”  
   
With a few deep breaths, McCoy attempted to bring himself under better control.  “Yeah,” he managed, once he was sure he wasn’t about to either choke on coffee or laugh outright  “Keep talking.”  
   
Spock gave him a slightly dubious look, but returned to discussing his dream.  At the end of his explanation, he took a deep swallow of tea, while McCoy pursed his lips.  
   
“And you’d never seen this woman before in your life?”  
   
“Never,” Spock confirmed.  He suddenly felt tired, tired of all the confusion, the mixed dreams, the streams of bureaucratic tape keeping him from . . . from . . . His head ached.  He ignored it.  
   
“You said there were kids too.  Did any of them seem familiar?”  
   
“No.”  Spock had gone over their dream faces precisely twenty three times in his mind, but the identities of the three children remained as elusive as ever.   
   
McCoy strummed his fingers on the table.  “Strange,” he said finally.  He shrugged, “I really don’t know what to tell you, Spock.  If even you don’t know who they were, then . . .” he paused.  “It seems weird that you’d remember this dream so clearly when you’ve been having such a hard time with the other ones,” he tried, and then frowned.  
   
Spock’s gaze rested on the edge of the table.  “You cannot assist me, then.”  It was not a question.  
   
“Fuck, Spock, don’t be like that,” McCoy said.  “Of course I’m trying to help you.”  
   
“And yet not moments ago you said you could not,” Spock pointed out, looking up.  “I understand, Doctor.  I do not understand these dreams.  I do not know,” he stopped, breathing out, speaking to the table, “I do not know if they are a sign of my memory returning, or if they are simply a new way for my subconscious to process the day.  I do not know _anything_.”  And although his face was blank, his voice even, his posture was hunched, tense.  
   
Taking a chance, McCoy reached out and gave his arm a slight pat.  “Hey,” he said, “It’s okay to be scared, it’s,” he struggled, words of reassurance unfamiliar on his tongue.  _How in the hell do you reassure a Vulcan with amnesia?_ “You’ve been through a lot, Spock.”  
   
“How can you say that,” Spock asked, steady voice tinged with exhaustion, “when not even I know exactly, ‘what I have been through’?”  
   
McCoy let out a noise of frustration, “I might not be able to figure out who those dream people might have been, or what they might have represented to your fucking subconscious or whatever, but I can still help in _other_ ways, jeeze.”  He ran a hand through his hair.  “With all the shit you’ve been dealing with over the past couple of weeks, you’re going to _need_ someone, Spock.  And if Jim can’t be here for you then it’s my damned duty to watch out for your pointy-eared ass.”  
   
“Because you are the Chief Medical Officer,” said Spock.  
   
McCoy flushed, “Well yeah, but that’s not the only reason.”  
   
“I understand,” said Spock, who clearly didn’t.  
   
McCoy grimaced.  “Look,” he tried again.  “I know we haven’t always exactly seen eye to eye.”  
   
“This is likely because I am precisely point three centimeters taller than you,” said Spock.  
   
“And we’ve had more than our fair share of arguments,” McCoy soldiered on, “what with you and Jim always doing stupid things and all but,” he took a breath, his voice softening, “You know I care about Jim, Spock.  And you know – or at least, you damn well should know after the number of times I’ve saved your ass on the operating table – that I care about you too.  Even if, you know, you’re shit at being friendly sometimes, you know?”  
   
Spock blinked, not quite sure what to say to McCoy’s sudden and rampant emotionalism.  “I,” he tried, but was cut off by McCoy who, now that he had girded his loins to _speak about feelings_ , was really on a roll.  
   
“So yeah, I’m Chief Medical Officer and it’s my job to make sure you’re healthy and all, but I’m also your friend, Spock.  I want to help.  It’s,” _It’s the only thing I can do_ “important to me.  To be able to help you.”  
   
Spock swallowed around something in his throat.  “I am . . . gratified,” he managed.  
   
There was silence for a moment or two.  Spock sipped his tea, McCoy gazed out the window at the lights of San Francisco, and fingered the handle of his coffee mug thoughtfully.  
   
“So,” he said at long last.  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way.  Do you,” he lowered his voice a bit, “do you want to talk about it?”  
   
Spock’s lips thinned.  “You must be more precise,” he said, although his tone lacked any significant bite.  “Discuss what, exactly?”  
   
McCoy rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean,” he said.  “Your dreams, anything you might remember about what happened.  Anything you might know.”  
   
Spock slammed his cup down.  “I have told you time and time again.  I _cannot remember_.  And if I cannot remember, Doctor, then I cannot,” he stopped, taking a deep breath and loosened his grip on the mug.  “Apologies, Doctor.  My control has been poor of late.”  
   
McCoy nodded.  “All right then,” he said.  He paused, as if gathering his thoughts.  
   
Still somewhat tense, Spock took another sip of his tea.  His mother had always gone on about how warm liquids were soothing for more than just physiological reasons such as quenching one’s thirst, and while Spock had publically said, with all the seriousness of a six year old, that that was clearly illogical, privately he had come to notice that she had had a bit of a point.  
   
McCoy’s wry voice interrupted his thoughts.  “So, were you planning on telling me when you were leaving, then?  Or were you just going to sneak out at midnight?”  
   
Spock froze for a split second and then carefully, deliberately willed his posture to appear casual.  
   
McCoy was not fooled.  “Do you really think I’m stupid, Spock?  You think I lived on a starship with you two for four years and I wouldn’t have any inkling about how your mind works?”  
   
Spock wet his lips with his tongue, “I have never made any mention of any imminent departure.  I am unsure from what information you have drawn your conclusions, but rest assured I—”  
   
“Don't give me that bullshit.  We both know that Vulcans make terrible liars.”  
   
Spock’s grip tightened around his cup.  
   
“And you didn’t have to say anything,” McCoy said.  “It’s clear as day.”  His eyes narrowed, “You didn’t want to discuss the dreams at all, did you?  You just wanted to get me to cover up for you while you’re gone.”  His voice hardened.  “Well tough luck, mister.”  
   
Finally, Spock looked at him.  His voice was as cold as McCoy had ever heard it as he replied, “You cannot stop me, Doctor.  Not in this.”  
   
McCoy glared at him, and smacked his fist down onto the table, making the mugs jump.  “Damn it Spock,” he said heatedly, “All of Starfleet’s fucking looking for him now.  You were delusional in the hospital barely four days ago— If this were the ship I wouldn’t declare you fit for duty until after another week and at least ten more visits from a Vulcan healer!  Where the hell do you get the idea that you’ll have any more success than Starfleet’s finest?”  
   
Spock’s eyes locked with his, but he did not answer.  Finally, McCoy looked away.  “Fuck,” he said distractedly.  “Fuck.”  He pointed a finger at Spock.  “Like hell I’m going to let you run off alone.  Give me a day to cover our asses and then we’ll go, okay?”  
   
“I could not ask you to,” Spock began stiffly.  
   
“For fuck’s sake Spock, do you have any idea what Jim would do to me if he knew I let you go gallivanting alone around the planet in your state?  No?  He’d fucking make Scotty weld a keel onto the bottom of the Enterprise just so he could keelhaul me on it!”  He scowled down into his coffee mug, and then back up at Spock’s face.  “I’m going with you and that’s final.  Now pack your shit, and I’ll try to figure out a way to get out of here that doesn’t involve getting court marshaled.”  
   
He glanced at Spock, expression frozen in the Vulcan version of abject shock.  
   
“Shit,” McCoy said.  “Don’t look so grateful.”  He drained the rest of his coffee in one long gulp, and stood up as well.  “I hope to god you know what you’re doing,” he growled, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to leave.  “I’ll meet you here at seven tomorrow morning.”  
   
Officially, Spock was on medical leave in order to “recover from mild physical trauma and heavy psychological trauma including but not limited to amnesia due to unknown causes, and other post traumatic stress.”  Unofficially, he was under house arrest for being “The last person to see Captain James T Kirk alive,” with the implicit understanding that as long as Spock stayed put and obedient, Starfleet Command wouldn’t stick any obvious security personnel outside his door, or a CCTV camera in his bathroom.  
   
McCoy shook his head.  Seriously, you’d think by now that the admiralty would have figured out that Spock was the opposite of whatever stayed put and obedient.  He sat down at his desk and tapped on his PADD.  
   
McCoy couldn’t hack computers like Jim and Spock and probably eighty five percent of the Enterprise crew could.  But he had other ways of getting what he wanted.  He bit his lip as his eyes scrolled down his list of work contacts, and then highlighted a particular name.  He tapped on it again, and up popped the contact information.  McCoy grinned wolfishly, pulled out his communicator, and began to dial.  
   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
 _Jim’s head lolled to the side, and Spock knew they were in trouble._  
   
 _“Jim,” he whispered urgently.  “Jim, you mustn’t go to sleep.”_  
   
 _Jim’s eyes fluttered open.  “Right,” he said groggily.  “Why can’t I, again?”_  
   
 _Spock clasped his shoulder, as much to keep himself grounded as to comfort his captain in whatever way he could.  “You are severely concussed,” he said.  “You must wait to sleep until you can receive medical attention.”_  
   
 _“Oh,” Jim said.  “Is that why I feel all . . .“ he trailed off and gestured weakly with his hands, “. . . fuzzy?”_  
   
 _“It is likely the root of your inability to concentrate, yes,” Spock said._  
   
 _Jim coughed and then groaned, reaching with both hands to touch his head.  “There’s going to be a bump,” he mumbled, “Hell of a bump.  Is the ceiling supposed to spin like that?”_  
   
 _“No,” Spock replied, watching Jim’s face like a hawk, tenseness in every line of his body._  
   
 _Jim’s eyes closed for a moment, then opened, then closed again.  “Maybe I’ll just take a little nap,” he said slowly, enunciating his words like he had to speak through heavy syrup.  “Maybe the floor will stop spinning— oh god,” and that was Spock’s only warning before Jim turned over onto his side and began to empty out the contents of his stomach.  Alarmed, Spock gripped him under the armpits and hauled him into a more upright position, supporting him until there were only dry heaves left, and Jim wiped a trembling hand across his mouth._  
   
 _“Sorry,” he said hoarsely, slumping against Spock’s body.  “Sorry.”_  
   
 _“It is not your fault,” Spock said, keeping his grip on Jim as he scooted them both away from the mess, the acid smell of vomit heavy in the air.  Jim squeezed his eyes shut at the motion, and his hand crept out to grip Spock’s arm for support._  
   
 _“Think I’d be used to getting hit on the head by now,” Jim mumbled.  Spock eased him back until he was resting between Spock’s legs, his back against Spock’s chest, his head pillowed on Spock’s shoulder.  “Fuck, worst shore leave ever.”  He shuddered._  
   
 _“Agreed,” Spock said, and if he ran his hands through the captain’s hair in a thoroughly un-Vulcan manner of comfort, well.  It wasn’t like anyone else was there to see._  
   
Spock was pulled out of his dream by an abrupt pounding on the door.  Unusually bleary, his head filled with half remembered images and the feel of Jim Kirk’s weight in his arms, he had lowered his feet to the floor and swiped his PADD off his bedside table to record what he could recall of his dream before he remembered.  McCoy.   
   
He was at the main door like a shot, opening it just in time to forestall another deluge of knocking.  McCoy stared at him for a moment, and then entered without asking permission.  
   
“Did you actually oversleep?” is the first thing that left the doctor’s mouth.  He peered at Spock suspiciously and fumbled in his pocket for the inevitable tricorder.  “You _never_ oversleep.  What gives?”  The tricorder began to whir away, and Spock found the noise illogically comforting.  
   
“I have been experiencing difficulty with my internal clock of late,” Spock said stiffly, eyeing the tricorder as it dipped down to whir over his armpit, “Doctor is that entirely necessary?”  
   
“Your adrenaline levels are up,” McCoy murmured to himself, “Heart rate accelerated, even for you – But of course, that could just be the result of an abrupt wakening.”   
   
Spock reminded himself that he had need of Doctor McCoy, and also that he was a Vulcan, his mind as quiet as stone, his emotions a well with water as smooth as glass, his— “Doctor, please!” he snapped as the tricorder took a rather invasive reading of the inside of his ear.  
   
McCoy flicked the tricorder off and stuck his hands on his hips.  “Well really Spock, how the hell am I supposed to convince the admiralty that you’re well enough to travel – but not well enough to be put on active duty – if I don’t have a record for it?” he growled.  “Now try to look extra groggy when I take this picture for the records.”  
   
“What?” Spock said, as a sudden flash of light assailed his eyes.  
   
“Huh,” said McCoy, glancing at the picture on the screen.  “Well you look more baffled than groggy, but I suppose it’ll do.”  
   
Spock glared at him, but McCoy took no notice.  
   
“Come on,” he said.  “Are we going or not?  Where’s your stuff?”  He paused for a moment to look up and down Spock’s simple black robe and added, “And for god’s sake man, put on some clothes.  No way am I driving your Vulcan ass around in public wearing only a bathrobe.”  
   
“It is not a bathrobe,” Spock corrected before he could stop himself.  “It is a meditation robe.”  He drew himself up to his full height.  “And if you could please explain what is going on and why you have invaded my quarters without permission?”  He neglected to mention the part where he _had_ actually been expecting McCoy, but figured that the doctor did not need any more ammunition than he already had.  
   
McCoy barked out a laugh.  “Come on, Spock.  With all that logic of yours you haven’t figured it out yet?”  
   
Spock’s mind flittered over dozens of possible answers to that question, each one more biting than the last, but McCoy gave him no chance to speak as he barreled on.  
   
“As your personal attending physician,” he said with that peculiar mixture of grandness and cantankerousness that Spock found to be both a fascinating and baffling facet of his personality, “I have been granted leave by Admiral Pike to escort you to the home of Healer T’Brin, one of eight Vulcan healers currently in residence on Earth.”  
   
Spock stared at him, so many questions dancing through his consciousness that he was momentarily unable to quiet his mind enough to give voice to the most crucial ones.  _Why would not Starfleet simply summon the healer here?  Why this particular healer when there are already two Vulcan healers in residence at Starfleet Medical?  How is this in any way helpful?_   Spock narrowed his eyes, seeing a twitch starting to grow at the corner of McCoy’s mouth; the doctor was clearly enjoying himself.  
   
“I can see you have questions,” McCoy said airily.  “Perhaps I can make things a bit clearer for you?”  
   
Spock gritted his teeth, unwilling to give McCoy any reason to puff himself up any further.  
   
“Do not worry, Doctor,” Spock said, deliberately putting an unnatural meekness into his tone.  “If this is what you believe to be the best course of action, then I will not question you on it.  You are, after all, the chief medical officer of the flagship.”  He turned away, hunching his shoulders a bit for full effect.  “Please excuse me, I must go pack.”  
   
“You,” McCoy stuttered.  Spock chanced a look back, and was un-Vulcanly satisfied at the reddish color McCoy’s forehead turned.  
   
“Me, Doctor?” Spock said innocently.  
   
McCoy scowled and pointed a finger at him.  “Whoever says Vulcans don’t do sass or sarcasm has clearly never met _you_ , you pointy-eared faker.”  
   
Spock stared at him, expressionless.  
   
McCoy heaved a sigh.  “Fine,” he said, sitting down in the nearest chair.  “Can’t even let a man enjoy his moment of ingeniousness.”  He ran his hand over his face as Spock sat down as well, and launched right into his explanation.  “The healers you’ve been seeing are good, Spock,” he said, “But they’re not the best, and they can’t seem to figure out what’s causing your amnesia, or how to bring back any memories.”  
   
“They are young,” Spock agreed, “After the destruction of my home planet, many of the mind techniques – and the healers who practiced them – were lost.”  
   
“Right,” McCoy agreed, his face darkening a little as it always did at the reminder of that loss.  “But Healer T’Brin is different.”  
   
Spock nodded.  “I have heard the name,” he confessed, “Although I must admit that when I searched the databases for Vulcan Healers, T’Brin did not appear as an active member of the medical community.”  
   
“You’re right,” McCoy said.  “Technically, she’s two hundred and thirty seven years old, and retired.”  
   
“And yet,” Spock said carefully, “We are going to see her.”  
   
“Well,” McCoy drawled.  “Her grandson might owe me a bit of a favor.  And as her only remaining family member, she might dote on him to rather – shall we say – _illogical_ levels.  Or at least, high enough levels to get her to both have a look at your head and convince Starfleet command that she might be your only hope of fixing it.  Alas,” McCoy paused, drawing an overdone expression of tragic necessity over his face.  “Well, she _is_ two hundred and thirty seven years old, and while everything’s still there,” he pointed at his head, “She’s really much too old to be journeying all the way down to Starfleet Medical, don’t you think?”  
   
Spock found his voice.  “Indeed,” he said blandly.  “Respect for the elderly is of vital importance.  Being of sound body, it is much more logical that I make the journey to her, rather than her coming to me.”  
   
“Definitely,” McCoy said.  “Makes much more sense that way.  Of course, no one really knows how long this sort of thing will take, so it’s possible you might have a sort of open-ended leave under my supervision until either your mind is healed, or you leave the service.”  
   
Spock leaned forward on his elbows.  “And if I might query,” he said, the full extent of McCoy’s plan coming to light.  “Where does Healer T’Brin make her abode?”  
   
McCoy grinned wolfishly, “While she winters in the American Southwest, she happens to have a summer residence in the Oregon High Desert near the foot of the Cascade Mountains.”  He spoke again, his voice still light, but his eyes growing serious.  “I hope being near the region of your and Jim’s abduction won’t be too hard on you.”  
   
Spock met his gaze.  “No, Doctor,” he said, something steely glinting through that Vulcan mask.  “I do not believe it will be.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
 **11 April 2262**  
   
The problem with campfires, Kirk reflected, was the wind.  In particular, the wind that seemed to blow the smoke in whichever direction he happened to be sitting.  
   
“Jim, the wind does not consciously decide to blow towards you.  If you would cease moving in a circle, logically there will be a time when you are not in its path.”  
   
Kirk stopped to glower and point a finger at Spock.  “One thing about campfires, Spock, is that they _always_ blow towards you.  It’s part of their charm.”  
   
“Such illogical certainty,” Spock murmured.  “I presume you have gathered extensive evidence of this phenomena?”  
   
“Naturally,” Kirk said, crouching down to tug at the zipper on his pack.  Tongue between his teeth, he dug in the front pocket.  “Almost thirty years of evidence.”  He looked up, a crumpled bag clutched in his hand.  “Want a s’more?”  
   
“Some more what?” Spock queried, leaning forward a little despite himself.  
   
“Not ‘some more’ – a s’more,” Kirk emphasized, heaving himself back up to pad over and settle himself next to Spock.  From the baggie, he began to produce some crumbly graham crackers.   “You can’t have spent so much time on Earth and never heard of a s’more.  That’s ridiculous.”  
   
“I have never gone ‘camping’ for recreational purposes before,” Spock reminded gently.  
   
“Hmph,” said Kirk.  His eyes sparkled.  “We’ll have to start adding s’more materials to overnight landing party missions.  Can’t have anyone else live in such ignorance.”  
   
Spock quirked an eyebrow.  
   
“Anyway,” Kirk said, somehow blissfully unaware of the look his first officer was sending his way.  “A s’more is basically a marshmallow,” he held one up, “roasted over the campfire, and squashed between two graham crackers.”  He indicated the bag.  
   
“That sounds rather . . . unappealing,” Spock managed.  
   
“Spo-ock,” Kirk whined.  “I even got the kind with the gelatin substitute.  Besides,” he held up a final ingredient.  “Chocolate goes in the s’more too.”  
   
Before he could control himself, Spock’s eyes lit up.  Kirk snickered.  “You honestly have the worst sweet tooth I’ve ever met.  I thought Vulcans didn’t like sweet things.”  
   
“Perhaps that is true of most Vulcans,” Spock allowed, “but as certain of my crewmates are so fond of pointing out – I am half human.”  He reached out to grab the chocolate piece, but Kirk quickly closed his hand.  Not quick enough though – Spock’s fingertips grazed the wrapping just as Kirk’s action enclosed his first officer’s hand within his own.   
   
For a moment, they sat frozen.  Then, Kirk slowly squeezed Spock’s hand, gave him a fleeting smile, and let go.  Spock exhaled, his body stock still, but his eyes following as Kirk speared a marshmallow on a well-sharpened stick and held it over the fire, his face turned away, his shoulders set deliberately casual.  
   
They sat in silence for a minute.  Finally, Spock spoke.  “Jim,” he said, voice soft.  
   
Kirk turned around, “Yeah, Spock?”  
   
“Your marshmallow is burning.”  
   
Kirk swore, yanking the stick out of danger and furiously blowing on it.  By the time the fire was out, his marshmallow was covered in a skin of blackened charcoal.  Kirk poked cautiously at it, winced at the heat, and stuck his finger in his mouth to cool.  “Ow,” he said, somewhat indistinguishably around the digit in his mouth.  
   
Spock swallowed and looked away as Kirk fumbled for the graham crackers and chocolate with his free hand and forced them into a sandwich, sliding the burned marshmallow in between.  White trails of gooey sugar created a small bridge between the s’more and the roasting stick until Kirk wrapped them around the stick and tugged.   
   
“There,” he said, resting the stick on the ground.  “A perfectly edible s’more.”  He held it out to Spock, who gingerly took it, examining it with a critical eye.  
   
“Oh for god’s sake,” Kirk said after about ten seconds of Spock staring at the s’more with seemingly no inclination to actually eat it.  “It’s not poisonous.  Just put it in your mouth.”  
   
Reluctantly, Spock bit off a small corner and chewed.  
   
“Well?” Kirk demanded.  
   
Spock swallowed.  “It is a bit too sweet for my tastes,” he said, while mentally cataloguing the entire concoction under his list of things to never consume again.  
   
Kirk rolled his eyes and snatched it back from him.  “Well if you’re not going to eat it, I’ll finish it then,” he said, and shoved the entire s’more in his mouth.  “Can’t believe you don’t like s’mores,” he mumbled, graham cracker crumbs flying from his mouth.  
   
Spock thought for a moment.  Despite its truth, apparently his dislike of this traditional human food had caused offense.  He looked over at Kirk, who was now shoving his roasting stick into the coals of the fire, seemingly at random.  “Jim,” he said.  
   
“Hmmm?”   _Poke, poke, poke_ went the stick into the coals.  
   
“Although the s’more is not to my tastes, I must admit it provided an interesting insight into human traditional foods.”  
   
“Hmmm.”  
   
“I . . . I would not be averse to partaking in some of the chocolate you brought.”  
   
“It’s over there,” Kirk waved his hand at the bag.  
   
Over the course of their time aboard the Enterprise, Spock had learned that there were few ways to deal with the Captain when he succumbed to one of his illogical sulks.  Naturally, the most efficient of these methods was also the simplest: give him what he wanted.  He set his shoulders.  
   
“I would also appreciate if you would be willing to instruct me in the proper method of ‘roasting’ a marshmallow.”  
   
Kirk peered up.  “You’re not just saying that?”  
   
“It would certainly be an opportunity to learn about an Earth cultural tradition from a . . . unique, standpoint?”  
   
Kirk gave him a look.  “Unique standpoint?”  
   
“From a local familiar with the process,” Spock clarified.  
   
“Uh huh,” Kirk said, but Spock could see he was trying not to smile.  “Very well, Mr. Spock.  If you want a local to teach you all about traditional Earth camping I guess I’m your man.”  
   
“Beginning with marshmallow roasting?”  
   
“Among other things,” Kirk agreed.  He shook his head.  “Well to start, you’ll have to get a stick.”

 

_\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

  
_**Chapter 4**  
   
 **24 May 2262**  
   
 _He was in a room, and Jim was there too.  Slumped against a stone wall, a fading bruise on his face, he looked . . . cold._  
   
 _Spock stepped into the room.  “Don’t worry, Captain Kirk,” he said, an unfamiliar voice issuing from his mouth.  “Should only be a few more days now.”_  
   
 _Jim raised his head.  “Fuck you,” he said._  
   
 _He laughed, its sound as cold as the stone surrounding them.  “I certainly hope not,” he said.  “You’re not half as pretty as my wife.”_  
   
 _Jim sneered, “Right.  I forgot – you’re a family man.”  The contempt in his voice was layered thickly over with exhaustion.  “Is your wife as much of a crazy cold stone bitch as you?”_  
   
 _The man who was but was not Spock clenched his teeth.  “I know you won’t believe me, but I’m doing this for you.  For the Federation.  For everyone.”_  
   
 _“Right,” Jim drawled, “I’m sure the Federation would love a man who kidnaps Starfleet officers, tortures them, murders them, and then leaves them out in the desert to rot.  That’s recruiting material right there.”_  
   
 _“Undoubtedly,” the other said calmly.  “But even if it’s not – you’ll see I’m right.  You won’t have to wait here much longer.”  He began to turn away, but Jim’s hoarse shout stopped him._  
   
 _“What?” Jim demanded.  “Almost time for what, damn you?  What the hell are you waiting for?  To kill me?  What the fuck do you want?”_  
   
 _“No, Captain Kirk,” the man said.  “I certainly do not want to kill you.  You’re a hero of the Federation.  My eldest son has a picture of you up on his bedroom wall.”_  
   
 _“You— you sick fuck!” Jim was nearly incoherent from dehydration, and lack of sleep, and rage.  He tried to stand, but dizziness overtook him and his legs collapsed beneath him.  “What – Spock’s fine to kill but I’m not?  What do you want, damn you!”_  
   
 _The man gazed calmly at him.  “Don’t worry, Captain.  In a few days, everything will be fine.” He turned back towards the entrance and tugged on an old fashioned stone door.  It came loose with a groan and he walked through the doorway as the door shut behind him, trapping Jim again in darkness and alone._  
   
 _“Spock,” Jim whispered, when the silence became unbearable.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  He buried his head in his hands.  “Fuck.”_  
   
_ “Spock.”  
   
Spock jerked upright at the sound of his name.  “Doctor McCoy?” he said cautiously.  He glanced outside of the hovercar window at the clouds gathering ominously in the distance.  
   
“Were you dreaming?”  
   
“I-” Spock said.  “Why do you ask?”  
   
“You were making noises in your sleep,” he said.  Despite his focus on the road ahead, McCoy’s voice seemed to hit directly at Spock’s center.  
   
Spock swallowed.  His control was starting to falter even more, if he had been speaking in his sleep without realizing it.  There was a strange, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach and an unusual dryness to his mouth.  Fear.  What was happening to him?  
   
“Yes,” he said, barely aware that it was his mouth that was moving, his vocal cords that were producing the noise.  “I was dreaming.”  
   
“About?” McCoy prompted.  
   
Spock thought for a moment.  “It was cold.  And dark.  I think—“ he cast his mind back, trying to recall the dream through the fog.  “Ji— the Captain was there.  He was very alone.  But no.”  Spock frowned minutely.  “He was not alone, there was another.  I cannot recall . . .” he trailed off.  Then his eyes widened.  “Jim thinks I am dead,” he said suddenly, and with complete certainty.  
   
McCoy’s knuckles tensed white on the wheels.  “And do you think he is?”  
   
Spock closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat.  “No,” he said softly.  “I do not.”  
   
“And how the hell can you be so sure?”  
   
Spock opened his eyes.  There was something, something very important that he had forgotten.  Something familiar, something . . . “I do not know,” he said.  “But I am.”  Illogical, but true.  Intuition?  No, this was something else.  Something more substantial.  
   
“Huh,” said McCoy.  “Vulcan voodoo at its finest, I suppose.  Healer T’Brin should be able to fix you right up, I’m guessing – although by the look of things we would only have to wait for a bit for you to fix yourself.  You’re getting better at remembering those dreams at any rate.”  
   
And yet, still experiencing them, when a Vulcan should not.  Spock did not give voice to the thought, nor did he comment on the current of fear woven through McCoy’s words, fear that T’Brin wouldn’t be able to fix him.  Instead, he nodded on to McCoy’s chatter about the Healer and how he knew her grandson, all the time wondering what, exactly, he had forgotten that was so important.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
 **12 April 2262**  
   
The best part of ‘backpacking’ Spock decided, was the dawn.  The spring sun rose masked with dew and fog, bird sound muffled.  Over the course of the morning though, the fog slowly lifted to reveal the still snowy peaks of the mountains surrounding them.  Walking out of camp a little ways, Spock stood by a cliff edge, looking out over the scenery.  He spotted Mt. Hood in the distance, its jagged top still white with snow, but lacking its former year round glaciers – they had melted in the summer of 2159 during the formerly dormant volcano’s first eruption in historical memory, if Spock recalled correctly.  He would have to look further into the geological history of the area once they returned to Starfleet Headquarters.  
   
There was time enough for that later however, he thought.  For now, Jim would be stirring in the tent, and Spock knew that he would be impossible to talk to until after he had ingested some form of caffeine.  With purpose, Spock turned around and began to stride back towards to campsite.  As he drew nearer he noticed that the birdsong had stopped.  Curious.  A dark squirrel bolted toward towards him, coming from the direction of camp.  It headed for a tree next to Spock and vanished into a hole within.   Spock found himself walking more quickly than was strictly necessary.  Some unknown urgency began to build itself in his side, so that by the time he was close to the tents, he was nearly jogging.  
   
He burst into the clearing to see to see absolutely nothing amiss.  Jim raised his head from where he had been putting on his boots at the entrance of the tent.   
   
“What’s up, Spock?” he asked, a small smile curving the corner of his lips.  “You see a bear or something?”  
   
“I,” Spock said, cursing himself for being so illogical when clearly there was nothing to fear.  He stopped a few feet away, realizing his breathing was harsher than it should be.  Control, he willed, Calm.  “No, Jim.  I—”   
   
And then he saw it: behind the twinkle in Jim’s blue eyes, hidden in the garden of ferns just beyond the tent.  A splash of light reflecting off metal.  Something that did not belong.  Spock’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened to shout a warning.  His limbs poised to spring out of the way all in the same instant as Jim’s expression slid from contentment to concern to alarm and then there was a flash a light and Spock knew only darkness.  
   
(He would later learn how Jim saw him fall and tumbled out of the tent, making a beeline for their assailant, dodging shots as fear and adrenaline and rage SpockSpockSpock notthisnotnow pounded through his veins like napalm fire, like his fists as he bowled into Spock’s assailant and came after him like a wild thing until brief, eternal seconds later he crumpled from a phaser blast from behind).  
   
They came to bound and moving.  Spock was awake first, testing the strength of the Romulan grade handcuffs chained to a wall.  There was a pounding behind his temples – apparently whomever had abducted them had not been satisfied with just a phaser stun to keep them quiet.  He tried to focus internally, and was fuzzily alarmed by the cocktail of drugs swimming through his system.  He blacked out again.  Jim never stirred.  
   
The next time he awoke, his vision was slightly clearer, although their situation did not appear to have improved overly much.  They were in a different room this time – no longer moving.  His hands were still cuffed behind his back, and his head still hurt.  He moved his arm and encountered an invisible wall.  His fingers traced over it but encountered no flaws.  A forcefield, then.  Logical if one wanted to keep them captive.  A door at the far end of the room began to creak open and Spock shut his eyes, pretending to still be asleep.  
   
Two pairs of booted footsteps echoed on a stone floor.  They stopped only a meter or so from him.  Someone spoke.   
   
“Not awake yet?”  
   
“Apparently.  Must’ve given them more then we realized.”  
   
More footsteps, someone pacing.  “Where’s the third one?”  
   
“Sorry?”  
   
“The third one.  You were supposed to pick up three.”  
   
“What the hell are you talking about?  There were only these two.  One tent, two sleeping bags, two backpacks.  Two.  Someone’s been giving you shitty intel.”  
   
“Look, there was supposed to be three of them, and now there aren’t.  Someone’s going to be pissed off about it and no way am I taking the fucking blame.”   
   
Spock realized with a faint sense of alarm that the voices were becoming steadily more indistinct – he must have been more drugged than he had first thought.  Then, nothing.  
   
The third time Spock woke up, it was to the dubious sound and sight of Jim taking a piss in a bucket in a corner.  Spock turned his head away to give his captain some illusion of privacy, and for the third time attempted to internally take stock of the situation.  He started with himself:  bruising around his abdomen, a bump on his head, chafed wrists, and sore all over.  Drugs . . . maybe.  Something still seemed off.  A part of his brain felt almost disconnected; floating.  No broken bones.  All in all, it could have been much worse.  He stretched, and discovered he was no longer chained to a wall, and his hands were free.  
   
Finished with his business, Jim cam over and crouched over by Spock.  “Hey,” he said.  His voice was hoarse and he had a hefty black eye.  “Can you sit up?”  
   
Spock struggled for a moment, his muscles screaming at him as he slowly sat upright.  His head swam, and he tried to focus, calling on all the tenets of Vulcan control.  When he thought he could speak he said, “this is a most unfortunate shore leave, Captain.”  
   
Jim looked at him, startled, then burst into an undignified snicker.  “That’s sure as hell one way of putting it,” he agreed.   
   
Spock inclined his head, then reached out to touch lightly at the bruising around Jim’s face.  “How did this happen?”  
   
“Ah,” Jim shrugged.  “When you were- shot.  I, um. I thought it was only one crazy guy so I went after him.   I think he got me in the eye.”  He let out a sigh, “Only apparently it’s lots of crazy guys with a lot of money if they can afford to keep a place like this.”  
   
Spock looked around.  ‘A place like this’ was a stone room, floor to ceiling sparkly schist blocks.  There was a bucket in one corner, and a tray in the other.  There was a door on the far side.  Jim noticed him looking.  
   
“There’s a forcefield of some kind blocking us from the door,” he said.  “But it’s only on some of the time.  I guess they must switch it on if they want to come in or something.  You know, leave food.”  He indicated a tray on the floor.  “Or what passes for food, anyway.  There’s some cheap bread and cheese.  Not much better than replicated stuff.  Some water.”  
   
“I see,” Spock said.  Hunger was all right for him.  He could control hunger.  Jim, on the other hand, he needed to eat.  Spock resolved to see that he did.  
   
“Not really any word on why we’re here,” Jim continued.  He looked uncomfortable, “Although to be honest, I’m not really sure where here is.  Or what day it is.  Or what time it is, for that matter.”   
   
Spock concentrated.  “My time sense is slightly off,” he said hesitantly.  “But I believe that it has been four days since our . . . forcible removal.”  
   
Jim looked shocked.  “Four days?  Jesus, we were supposed to be back two days ago.  Starfleet must be in an uproar by now.”  
   
“Indeed,” Spock said, inwardly struggling with a time sense that seemed to be slipping out of his grasp like so many grains of sand.  He tried to keep a blank face and focus on what Jim was telling him, how they had to keep vigilant, find out what was going on, who had taken them, how to get out of this mess . . .  
   
“Spock?  Spock!”  Jim leaned forward and grasped Spock by the shoulders, manhandling him as he tilted to the side.  “Damn it Spock, focus here!  You’ve got to stay awake.”  
   
“Apologies, Captain,” Spock managed.  He felt boneless, and if not for Jim’s support would have slumped to the ground.  
   
“Damn,” Jim said again.  He pulled Spock against him, wrapping one arm against his chest, resting the other one gently on his head.  “They hit you on the head a couple times,” he said, “I couldn’t stop them,” guilt, concern, pain.  “But you’re made of pretty hard stuff.  It shouldn’t be this bad.”  
   
“I believe,” Spock said, focusing simultaneously on getting his tongue to cooperate and on soaking in the warmth of Jim’s body in the cold of the room.  “I believe that my immune system is reacting, reacting adversely.  Badly to the drugs.  I think, even though they have been metabolized there is still something.  Something.”  Spock couldn’t continue, he felt as if he were trying to speak through a thick cloud of syrup, his mouth tingling and slow.  “I,” he said.  “Jim.”  The room spun, and he could do nothing to stop it, control in tatters, something wrong with his mind. He clutched blindly at something.  Jim.  He was awarded with a hand in his, squeezing gently.  He squeezed back with all the strength left in his fingers before his arm fell limply to the ground beside them.  
   
Spock was getting tired of blacking out and waking up confused.  This time, it was to the sound of raised voices; there were several people in the room arguing with each other – and with Jim.  
   
“He needs a fucking doctor!” Jim was shouting.  “Whatever the hell you did to him, fix it!”  
   
“Quiet, Captain,” another voice said.  This one was unknown.  He spoke again, more quietly this time.  “I thought I told you to bring three of them.  Three Starfleet officers.  Can’t you count?”  
   
“Hell if I can’t,” said another voice, this one more belligerent.  “There were only two and there was no one else on that whole damn mountain.  What’s the big deal – two can be ransomed just as well as three.”  
   
“I do not want to ransom them,” said the quieter voice with all the warmth of a December night.  “Clearly your service does not live up to its reputation, does it?”  
   
“Are you fucking listening?” Jim demanded.  “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re going to get out of this, but my first officer needs medical attention now!”  
   
Footsteps drawing nearer, a quick intake of breath from Jim.  Spock could picture his fists balled at his sides, his stance slowly shifting into a more balanced one, getting ready to spring.  
   
“Your first officer will be fine,” the voice said dismissively.  He sounded very close to Spock.  “Vulcanoid species tend not to react well to the drug – apparently the neurotoxin in it has a strange effect on their brains.  It should not be permanent, however – except in large doses.  But don’t worry,” he said as Jim made a strangled noise of fury in the back of his throat.  “We didn’t give him that much.” He paused.  “Yet.  Good day, Captain.”  
   
The footsteps began to recede.  Spock cracked open an eye to see Jim left scowling helplessly after them, a tall thin man and a shorter, burly one.  “We’re going to have to change our plans a little,” the tall one with the cold voice was saying.  The door slammed.  Spock licked his dry lips.  
   
“Jim,” he said, attempting to sit up.  “Jim.”   
   
Jim whirled around.  “Spock!” he said.  “Thank god.  I thought— you just blacked out and you’ve been asleep for at least twelve hours  -- I think.  It’s hard to tell time.  But I thought,” he knelt down and brushed hands over Spock’s face, his shoulders, and Spock felt the truth through his skin.  Overwhelming relief.  I thought you were never going to get up.  “How are you feeling?” he said instead.  “Are you still dizzy?  Can you sit up?”  
   
Spock exhaled deeply and pushed himself upright with Jim’s assistance.  “I believe I am more fully recovered,” he said.  “I am no longer dizzy.  My control is—” he stopped as Jim shoved a piece of bread and a cup of water at him.   
   
“Eat,” Jim said.  “Slowly.”  
   
“But,” Spock protested.  Jim scowled at him.   
   
“They’ve replenished it twice already since you’ve been out,” he said.  “We’re not going to starve and you haven’t eaten in about four days.”  
   
“Ah,” said Spock, as Jim waved the food threateningly under his nose.  “I supposed it would be logical to consume foodstuffs at this time,” he said meekly, ignoring the slight churning in his stomach.  
   
“You bet your ass it is,” Jim said.  “And if you can keep this down, I’m giving you more.”  
   
Reluctantly, Spock took the bread from him and began to chew, Jim watching him all the time like a hawk.  Despite his lingering nausea, the bread stayed down and Jim forced him to eat two more slices, as well as a piece of cheese before he was satisfied.  He washed it down with water, to Jim’s approval, and then settled himself against the wall next to Jim.  He was still sore, and his head still hurt, but the rest of his senses seemed to be functioning at more normal levels, and he was able to block the pain with a great deal more ease than before.  
   
“Now,” Jim said.  “If you’re up for it, we’re going to figure out how to get the hell out of here.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
 **24 May 2262**  
   
The House of Healer T’Brin was tucked into the side of a cliff, remote enough that the road leading towards it was only made of dirt and gravel (McCoy had never been so grateful for a hovercar) and that they only passed one other vehicle on their way there.  
   
McCoy stopped and parked where the road apparently ended and what appeared to be a driveway began.  Leaning back and undoing his seatbelt, he looked over at Spock, who appeared to be doing – of all things – a crossword puzzle out of a synth-paper magazine.  
   
“What are you doing?”  
   
In answer, Spock held up the magazine.  Of course, McCoy thought ruefully, he was nearly finished and had done it all in ink.  
   
“Where on earth did you get that?”  
   
“From under the seat,” Spock answered.   
   
With a sudden jolt of recognition, McCoy spied the rather pink and fancy writing on the front of it.  “Is that a crossword from my daughter’s Teen Today magazine?” he demanded.  “You know that’s for teenaged girls, right?”  
   
Spock had the sense to look slightly abashed, “In truth,” he said, “I have found some of the articles to be particularly enlightening in regards to the worldview of young human females.  It makes for quite a fascinating anthropological study.”  
   
“Lord give me strength,” muttered McCoy, opening the ‘car door.  “Come on, Spock.  Let’s go get your brain fixed.”  
   
“Indeed,” Spock said quietly, setting the magazine on the seat as he too got out.  “Let us.”  
   
They walked up the path to the door rang the bell.  After a minute or two, the door creaked open and were admitted by a Vulcan who looked to be around Spock’s age; his stature was slightly smaller, his skin darker and his hair lighter and almost shoulder width.  He wore the simplest of meditation robes and his feet were bare.  
   
“Doctor McCoy,” he said.  He looked past McCoy, “And Commander Spock.  I am Topek.  Live long and prosper,” he added, making the ta’al almost lazily.  Spock responded in kind.  “Come,” he said, “My grandmother is expecting you.”   
   
He led the way into the house, feet tapping lightly on the wooden floor.   Spock was surprised somewhat when, instead of leading them directly to Healer T’Brin, Topek brought them instead to a large dining room.  “Please,” he said.  “Wait here and refresh yourselves.  I will bring water.” He disappeared into a kitchen off to the side.  Spock heard the sound of running water and of a cupboard opening and closing before Topek reappeared, tray in hand.  In addition to two cups of water, he also bore a bowl full of fresh strawberries.  He set them down before Spock and McCoy.  
   
“Please eat,” he said.  “My grandmother is resting, but she will awaken in approximately fifteen minutes.  “In the meantime, I will introduce myself more fully, and you may reply in kind if you wish it.”  
   
“I already know who you are, Topek,” McCoy said, rolling his eyes.  
   
“But Commander Spock does not,” Topek pointed out.  He reached out and plucked a strawberry from the bowl.  “Therefore, introductions are only necessary, are they not?”  
   
McCoy grumbled, but Spock leaned forward attentively.  “I have read many of your articles on genetically inherited diseases,” he said.  “When my appointment with Healer T’Brin is concluded, perhaps we might discuss them further?”  
   
“Perhaps,” Topek agreed, a spark of interest in his eyes.  “But only if the favor is returned in regards to your articles, Commander Spock.”  
   
“I am gratified,” Spock said.  “And simply ‘Spock’ will suffice.”  
   
Topek inclined his head.  “And I am Topek,” he said, “Grandson of T’Brin.  A medical researcher on the subject of genetically inherited diseases, as I surmise you are already aware.”  
   
“An interesting focus for a son of a family of Mind Healers,” Spock said.  
   
“A personal one,” Topek said simply, and did not elaborate.  
   
“I am Spock son of Sarek,” Spock said.  “And I—” he looked up as an elderly Vulcan woman appeared in the doorway, eyes dark and watchful, “—I am here because I have lost my memory,” he finished softly.  
   
“Then you have come to the correct House, Spock son of Sarek,” the woman said.  She walked over to them, her gait slow and careful, and waved them down when they moved to stand.  “Do not get up on my account,” she said.  Topek stood anyway, and offered her his seat, which she took.  
   
“Ma’am,” said McCoy.  
   
Spock spoke, “I am grateful for your offer of healing, Elder,” he said in Vulcan.  “And for the hospitality of your house and family.”  
   
She nodded.  “I sense your need is great,” she replied in kind, “I will do what I can to ease your suffering.”  She switched back to Common.  “Let us retire to someplace more comfortable,” she said.  “And then,” she turned back to Spock, “I must have your mind.”  
   
Spock bowed his head.  “I give it freely,” he said. _  
_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
_

 

  
**Chapter 5**  
   
 **24 May 2262 – The House of Healer T’Brin**  
   
Healer T’Brin led Spock and McCoy down the hallway to a wooden door.  She stopped.  “Beyond this door is a room of healing,” she said.  She looked at McCoy, and then spoke directly to Spock,  “You may decided whether or not your companion is also allowed within.”  
   
Spock nodded, and turned to McCoy.  “The doctor and I have had our differences,” he said quietly, “But despite those we have travelled together and I consider him a— a brother.  He may remain.”  
   
Healer T’Brin inclined her head.  “Very well,” she said, and opened the door.  Inside there was a simple bed covered in white sheets, with one chair and a table next to it, and two chairs by the wall.  “Spock,” she said, “You must lie on the bed.  McCoy, you may take one of the chairs on the far wall and _observe only_.” She looked at him sharply.  “Healing the mind is a delicate process; an interruption could cause permanent damage.”   
   
“I understand, Ma’am,” said McCoy.  
   
She then turned and made for the hallway saying, “I must retrieve my nutritional supplement, in case I am in need of more strength.” She caught McCoy’s concerned look and said, “I am old, Dr. McCoy, but do not be concerned.  It is a precaution only.  I will return momentarily.”  The door shut behind her.  
   
Spock and McCoy looked at each other.  McCoy gave a little shrug as he started to head over to the chairs.  “Brother, huh?” he said carefully.   
   
Spock avoided looking at him, “Even the best of siblings often do squabble,” he muttered.  
   
“Right,” said McCoy, as Spock settled himself gingerly onto the bed.  “I— thanks,” he added awkwardly, after a moment.  He looked at his hands, and then something occurred to him and he glanced back up at Spock.  “Hey, is that like the same thing you call Jim sometimes?”  
   
Spock hesitated.  “It is similar,” he said evasively, lying down on top of the sheets.  
   
McCoy furrowed his brow, “What’s the difference?” he asked.  
   
But Spock was spared having to answer by T’Brin bustling back into the room – although heaven forbid a Vulcan bustle anywhere, McCoy thought.  She eyed Spock.  
   
“Are thee ready?” she said, sitting down on the chair next to Spock’s bedside.  “Take care, the fact that these memories are lost to you may imply that they are of a disturbing nature.”  
   
“I am,” Spock said resolutely.  
   
Healer T’Brin nodded, then latched her fingers to Spock’s meld points.  “My mind to your mind,” she intoned.  “My thoughts to your thoughts.”  She closed her eyes, as Spock’s fluttered shut, and stillness and silence descended upon the room.  To McCoy, the pair looked like frozen statues, and even though they were attached to each other only by the briefest of touches, it seemed as if they were connected by unbreakable steel.  
   
 _“You have been dreaming,” said T’Brin.  Her voice in Spock’s mind felt like dry wind blowing across the desert; the prelude to a sandstorm._  
   
 _“Yes,” said Spock._  
   
 _“But you should not be,” said T’Brin._  
   
 _“No,” said Spock.  “Vulcans do not dream.”_  
   
 _“But thee are only half Vulcan,” T’Brin reminded him._  
   
 _Spock felt a pang.  “Nonetheless,” he said.  “I should not dream.”_  
   
 _T’Brin’s agreement flowed over him, “Do not be sorrowed, Son of Sarek,” she said, “I am old enough to realize that your human half is not your weakness.  And indeed, you are correct; you should not be dreaming.  But,” and the images swirled before Spock’s mental eye, “these are not your dreams.”_  
   
 _The mindscape twisted around them, settling on an image of the woman and three children who Spock did not know.  “This woman is not your mate,” she said.  “These are not your offspring.”_  
   
 _“No,” Spock said._  
   
 _“Why then, must you know their faces so intimately?” she mused._  
   
 _The figures disappeared, and another one came forth; the shadowy figure of a man, a presence that Spock knew well – as one inside himself._  
   
 _“Yet,” T’Brin cautioned, “You are not this man.  Though you have spoken with his voice and felt his anger and dreamed of his family, thee and he are not the same.  But there is something . . .”_  
   
 _Spock could not even scrape together the energy to hide the illogical feelings of profound relief that swept over him.  He had not been the one to hurt Jim.  He had not struck him.  He had not lied to him about Spock’s death.  Had not starved him.  Had not . . . hurt him.  And yet.  And yet._  
   
 _Spock ached as though he had landed every blow himself, and then received them in turn._  
   
 _Jim . . ._  
   
 _The landscape of their merged minds was changing once again, and from the dispersed mists of the shadow man finally came an image of Jim.  Not an image of Jim bruised and wounded and angry against the walls of the room entrapping them, but one that Spock remembered from only a few months ago._  
   
 _He had entered Jim’s quarters without invitation – as had become their custom over the past year or so – to both query after a report, and to see if he might convince his overworked captain to sleep sometime in the next week.  Of course, the next hour would be preferable, but Spock had learned to pick such battles with care._  
   
 _But rather than finding Jim scrabbling away fiercely at one official thing or another in the front room, Spock had instead found him sitting up in bed— having clearly fallen asleep without meaning to.  A large PADD lay across his lap, the stylus dangling loosely in the hand hanging off the edge of the bed.  His face was turned up even as he slumped against the pillows and he looked— calm.  Trusting.  Unnaturally serene._  
   
 _Spock could have left him like that, turning off the lights and tiptoeing out of the room as if he had never been.  Instead, he walked forward to gently caress Jim’s meld points, easing him into an even deeper sleep; one the captain would not awaken from until his alarm sounded.  That done, Spock relieved him of the PADD and stylus, setting them on the bedside table, and hoisted Jim himself into his arms so that he could peel back the covers, before depositing his captain back into the bed – this time in a position that would not crick his neck and would allow for the optimum amount of rest.  He pulled the covers up past Jim’s shoulders, and tucked them around him.  For a moment, Spock paused, simply observing Jim’s face.  Then he mentally shook himself, stepped away from Jim, and left the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind him._  
   
 _Spock could sense T’Brin’s curious perusal of this memory, and he was sure that if they had not been in a meld, his face would have been flushed beyond all recognition, no matter how much control he was supposed to have.  As it was, he squirmed as she scrutinized every angle of the memory, going over when he stood in the doorway, and when he walked forward.  His examination of Jim’s face.  How he had felt as he lifted Jim in his arms, and placed him gently back down again._  
   
 _“You named the one who accompanied you as ‘brother,’” she said.  “But not, I noticed, as t’hy’la.”_  
   
 _“No,” Spock whispered._  
   
 _“This one, then,” she indicated Jim.  “This one is t’hy’la.  The brother of your soul.”_  
   
 _“Yes,” Spock admitted, for who could lie in a mindmeld, even to themselves?_  
   
 _“Does he know?”_  
   
 _“I—” Spock said.  He forced himself to continue; T’Brin could glean the truth from his mind with or without his cooperation, but he preferred to surrender his dignity on his own terms.  “I do not know,” he said finally.  “He knows— he knows I call him brother, but likely does not understand the nuances of the word itself.  Its total meaning.  Perhaps— perhaps he suspects my regard for him, but truly I do not— I am unsure—”_  
   
 _“You believe that he would not jeopardize your preexisting friendship.  You believe that he would not taunt fate by ignoring Starfleet protocol, by having a captain and first officer be emotionally compromised by each other.”_  
   
 _Spock felt each word bite into him, hot shame rolling over him at the idea of being emotionally compromised yet again, and then more shame at feeling it, and being unable to stop it, unable to look away, unable . . ._  
   
 _“Spock,” T’Brin said, voice rousing him out of his barreling, uncontrolled thoughts.  “We Vulcans feel deeply.  There is no shame in this.  What is shameful is to allow your emotions to dictate your actions.”_  
   
 _Spock swallowed, “I am Vulcan,” he said.  “I must follow the teachings of Surak.  Of logic.”_  
   
 _“There are many ways to follow Surak’s path.”_  
   
 _Spock opened his mouth to speak and before his eyes swam images of Jim; working, sleeping, running, laughing.  “What I feel for him,” he said desperately, “is not logical.”_  
   
 _T’Brin’s gentle amusement trickled all around him, “On the contrary,” she said.  “It is the most logical thing in the world.”_  
   
 _“How?” Spock whispered, “How?”_  
   
 _“If I told you, would you believe me?” T’Brin asked.  Spock felt her admonishment.  “You must answer that query for yourself.  Think, Spock.  Use your mind.  Use your memories.”_  
   
 _“I—” Spock said.  “I cannot.  My memories are lost.”_  
   
 _“Not those memories,” T’Brin said, and Spock got the most curious impression that she was actually rolling her eyes at him.  “Your memories of before.  Your memories of **him**_.”   
   
 _And she mercilessly cast Spock deeper into his own mind and he saw—_  
   
 _Jim.  Not the Jim of their tumultuous first meeting, covered in grief and grime, but Jim in the few months leading up to his field promotion being declared permanent.  He was sitting in one of the libraries at Starfleet Academy, back to Spock, writing with a pen and real paper, of all things._  
   
 _“If I may ask a personal query?”_  
   
 _Jim jumped.  The pen rolled away from him and he caught it just before it made it over the side of the desk._  
   
 _“Sure,” he said.  “Ask away.”_  
   
 _“What are you doing?  You are not responsible for writing the condolence letters to the families of those who died during the Narada’s attack on the Enterprise.”  It still hurt to say it.  Spock blocked out the pain, pretending that it was someone else’s planet that had been destroyed, someone else’s mother who had died._  
   
 _“Someone has to do it,” said Jim._  
   
 _“But not you, necessarily,” Spock pointed out._  
   
 _Jim shrugged.  “I want to,” he said._ I need to _went unspoken, but Spock heard it as clearly as if it had been said aloud.  He stiffened, and left the room._  
   
 _“His thoughts intruded upon yours,” T’Brin said._  
   
 _“Yes,” Spock said almost numbly, “I did not realize it was to such a high degree.”_  
   
 _“You melded with him.”_  
   
 _“In the line of duty,” Spock said.  “To ease pain.  Or to confuse a telepathic opponent.”_  
   
 _A flash of Jim with a broken leg and blood dripping down his face._  
   
 _An image of Spock, mind tied to his Captain’s, shielding them both from a telepathic search party._  
   
 _“You soothed his nightmares,”_  
   
 _“It is the duty of a first officer to see to the security and health of his captain,” Spock protested, but the protest rang hollow in his mind._  
   
 _“Indeed,” T’Brin’s amusement was back.  Spock was starting to get a little bitter about the fact that she threw her emotions around so freely inside what was supposed to be his mind.  It was most unseemly._  
   
 _“Only to you, Young One,” said T’Brin._  
   
 _“I fail to understand why the perusal of these memories is necessary,” Spock said stiffly._  
   
 _“You will,” T’Brin said.  “Tell me,” she continued, “At what point did you begin to look forward to melding with him?  When did it become painful to break away from his mind?”_  
   
 _Spock did not want to answer, did not want to reveal how much control he had really lost when it came to Jim, and anything that he did._  
   
 _But then Spock was drowning, in a memory of water and in telepathic hate so strong it could break bone and then, and then there was a hand, cool, firm, pulling him up and Jim holding him, putting Spock’s fingers to his own forehead saying ‘Spock, Spock come on, come on!  You’ve got to get your head back straight, come on, I’m here, I’m here, listen to me, listen to me damn you!’ and Spock took that invitation instinctively and dove in and was warm and home and he did not want to leave—_  
   
 _“He saved my life,” Spock gasped, lungs burning.  “He forced me to meld with him, to stabilize my own mind.”_  
   
 _“He should not have been able to do that,” T’Brin observed._  
   
 _“No,” Spock said, and felt a peculiar sort of pride, “But he did.”_  
   
 _“Indeed,” T’Brin said.  “And you hypothesized what— that having been subjected to so many previous melds, your minds were already attuned enough to allow you to meld with him when the need became desperate?”_  
   
 _Spock’s silence was his answer._  
   
 _“Surely you must have known there was more to it than that?” T’Brin continued incredulously._  
   
 _Spock tried to look away, but it was difficult to accomplish when all around him he felt T’Brin’s presence, and Jim’s shadow one._  
   
 _T’Brin sighed.  “You are young,” she said.  “It is forgivable.  But now his life hinges on your understanding, does it not?”_  
   
 _“I do not know,” Spock said miserably.  Clearly he had misjudged somewhere, misstepped in his careful relations with Jim, trying to downplay the potential of their mental connection, even to himself; trying not to reveal too much, trying to shy away, but not hurt him._  
   
 _“Look down,” T’Brin said._  
   
 _Spock glanced at his feet.  What appeared to be a small stream burbled its way into the distance, passing between his legs where he stood, going on to infinity._  
   
 _“Where does it lead?” he asked, but in his heart, he already knew._  
   
 _“To find out,” she said, “You must jump.”_  
   
 _And so he did._  
   
 _As he jumped, he expected to feel cold water to surge around him, pushing him under; he had never been the strongest of swimmers, and what had appeared to be a stream seemed bottomless.  Instead, the water seemed cool against his skin, but comforting.  He found he did not need to breath.  He closed his eyes and let himself sink._  
   
 _When Spock opened his eyes, he was lying flat on his back in the room he and Jim had spent weeks in.  He got to his feet, and Jim’s head jerked up at the sight of him._  
   
 _“Spock!” he said.  He stood, taking an eager step forward toward him, hand outstretched. It passed straight through Spock’s as though he were nothing more than a mirage.  “I must be dreaming,” he said, stepping back._  
   
 _“Logical,” Spock said, ignoring the way his body was singing just at the sight of Jim.  “If, as Healer T’Brin has told me, I have been entering your dreams unintentionally, it seems logical that you should be able to enter mine.  Or that I should be able to enter yours when in actuality I am deep in a healing meld with a renown healer who is who knows how many kilometers away from your physical location.”_  
   
 _Jim stared at him.  “That’s got to be the most bizarre thing you’ve ever said to me,” he said.  “Now I know this is a dream.  You’re dead.” He slumped against the wall again._  
   
 _“No,” Spock said forcefully, “I assure you that I am not.”_  
   
 _Jim peered at him through matted hair, “You always say that when I dream about you here,” he said fondly.  “Always trying to make me feel better.” He scowled, “Kind of sucks when I wake up though, knowing—” he broke off.  “How did you find me here?”_  
   
 _Spock felt like saying ‘I followed a stream in my mind and it led me to your mind,’ would have been poorly received.  Instead he said, “We are connected.”_  
   
 _“You’re an idiot,” Jim said._  
   
 _Spock flinched._  
   
 _“Like I need to dream you to tell me we have some sort of mystical rope tying my brain to yours— come on, Spock.  Like I wouldn’t have figured it out by the time I made you meld with me.  But if you’re dead,” Jim drew a shuddering breath, “I shouldn’t be able to feel you.  I haven’t been able to feel you.  So how did you find me here?”_  
   
 _Spock did not know what else to do except say numbly, “I will always be able to find you.”_  
   
 _“Huh,” Jim said.  “Well, that’s kind of creepy, but also kind of reassuring, I guess.”  He looked up, then back at Spock.  “I’m just going to go ahead and keep treating you like a dream figment of my imagination,” he informed him.  Spock made a tiny movement of protest, but Jim held up his hand, “Nuh uh, mister,” he said.  “It’s easier for me this way, believe me.”  He crossed his arms in front of his chest, “So, what do you want, Dream Spock?  What can I do for you here?”_  
   
 _“I—” Spock hesitated.  He had found Jim, but not his physical body.  Jim could not tell him where he was, and Spock could not even gather himself to find him because he did not remember what had transpired.  Spock’s eyes widened.  He might not remember, he realized, but someone else did.  “You know what happened,” Spock said._  
   
 _“Um, yeah,” Jim said.  “So should you.  We were both here.”_  
   
 _Spock shook his head, “But I don’t,” he said.  “The memories are gone— blocked by something.”_  
   
 _Jim shrugged.  “It’s probably for the best,” he said.  “It wasn’t exactly pleasant.  Probably better that you don’t remember it.”_  
   
 _“But I cannot,” Spock tried.  Jim looked at him quizzically, “I must know what caused my amnesia,” he tried again.  “There is something, I know there is something in my mind that will help me find you.  Please,” he held out his hand.  “Please, I must know what happened.”_  
   
 _Jim looked at him carefully, then moved closer.  “If I tell you what happened,” he asked softly, “Will you rest easier?”  (Will you stop haunting me?)_  
   
 _“I will not rest until I find you,” Spock replied._  
   
 _“Sweet of you,” Jim said, “But you’re dead, so I’ll understand if you take a while.”_  
   
 _“I am not dead,” Spock repeated.  “And I will come for you.”_  
   
 _Jim choked out a laugh, “So stubborn.” He sobered.  “Fine, you win.”  He paused, steepling his hands together in a manner almost reminiscent of Spock himself.  “After days of interrogating us about random shit like the movements of Starfleet Medical, they brought in a machine,” he started, and Spock saw himself in Jim’s mind._  
   
 _Spock was hit with a stun from a phaser as the forcefield was lowered.  His body fell to the ground while Jim watched helplessly, chained to the wall for the previous three hours.  The shadow man himself stepped forward; his features still curiously blurred in Spock’s mind’s eye, as two others hauled Spock up and strapped him to a chair._  
   
 _“This used to be a Klingon mindsifter,” said the shadow man.  He patted it fondly, “But I’ve had it modified to suit my purposes.”  He picked up what looked like a helmet connected to the rest of the machine, and put it on while something nearly identical was shoved over Spock’s lolling head as well.  “It allows those of us without innate psychic abilities,” his mouth twisted sardonically, “to influence those who do.”_  
   
 _He flipped a switch, pressed something, and Spock remembered pain.  Screaming.  Yes, he had screamed as what felt like one thousand needles pierced his skin along with unspeakable pressure in his mind.  He could hear Jim outside his immediate sphere of influence shouting his name over and over, but the knives raking over the layers of his mind like hot coals made him almost deaf to Jim’s cries.  He fought for control, and shook, and shivered as hate and desperation poured into his mind like magma. **It’s disgusting, it’s unnatural, it’s an abomination, we can’t allow it, whatever it takes, whatever it takes, tell me this will work** and **You will find him, and bring him back here, you will do as I say. Do this and we will release your Captain.  A fair trade . . .**_  
   
 _And Spock railed against that voice while through the layers of fire and pain he searched and found the source as instinct took over and he struck at it, comprehending its purpose with dawning realization, even has he sensed with dimming eyesight Jim stretching out enough to dislocate his own wrist but close enough to touch him.  And there was suddenly a coolness flowing through him, stronger than ever before, flooding that stream that connected their minds into a torrential river, and part of Spock grabbed at it desperately, greedily because he knew Jim’s touch, and tied it around himself for strength, while the rest of Spock continued to fight mind to mind with the shadow man, stronger now because it was both of them, together, ripping at him and rolling until it was impossible to separate the pain from himself and from the shadow man and from Jim and then his own mind, overcome with everything.  Shut.  Down._  
   
 _And there was the impenetrable darkness of amnesia.  And behind it, a cool stream of water – and something else that did not belong._  
   
 _Spock came back to Jim speaking, “I couldn’t feel you anymore,” he said, and his voice had a hysterical edge to it.  “I couldn’t feel you.”_  
   
 _Spock’s mouth was dry with revelations, adrenaline, and fear, “They took me away.  They dumped me in the desert.”_  
   
 _“Yes,” Jim’s voice cracked, “They mentioned.  They said you were dead.”_  
   
 _“They lied,” Spock said, even as the room and Jim started to grow faint.  He felt himself rising back to consciousness, helped along by the ever-meddling T’Brin._  
   
 _“Spock,” Jim said, “Wait, Spock!”_  
   
 _“I’m coming for you,” Spock told him resolutely, as the room disappeared into a swirl of grey.  “I’m coming.”_  
   
Spock opened his eyes to Healer T’Brin’s wizened ones.  
   
“You understand,” she said.  
   
“Yes,” Spock croaked, his throat dry beyond recognition.  T’Brin handed him a glass of water, which he took and sipped gratefully.   
   
“You know what they want.  Why they let you go.”  
   
“Yes,” Spock repeated.  His eyes scanned the room, settling on McCoy.  “Doctor,” he said, struggling to sit up.  “I know how to locate the Captain.”  
   
McCoy jumped up, “That’s great, Spock!” he said.  “We’ll have to tell Command.”  He faltered at the look Spock gave him.  “What?” he demanded, “Why are you looking at me like that?  It seems like a pretty reasonable suggestion to me!”  
   
Spock ignored him, instead swinging one shaky leg after another over the side of the bed.  T’Brin helped steady him as he stood.  
   
“They will be expecting you,” she said softly.  “You know this.”  
   
Spock shook his head.  “They will be expecting us,” he replied in kind.  His eyes grew dark, “But they will not be expecting everything.”  
   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
They took their leave of Healer T’Brin the following morning, as by the time T’Brin and Spock emerged from their meld, it was well past midnight.  
   
“You seem changed,” Topek observed, as Spock and McCoy thanked the Healer for her assistance, and the hospitality of her House.  “I sense that the knowledge you gained from your healing meld was more than you had bargained for.”  
   
Spock inclined his head, “I cannot refute that,” he said.  
   
Topek’s eyebrow shot up. “Ah,” he said.  “Then it was worth the time and energy.”  
   
“Possibly,” Spock said, as he and Doctor McCoy turned and made their way back to the hovercar.  Spock opened the door and sat down as McCoy started the engine.  
   
“We need a Transport,” Spock said.  
   
McCoy’s lips thinned.  “No,” he said.  “What we need is to contact Starfleet Command, let them know you know where Jim is.  Then we can sit back and let the on duty _not on medical leave due to trauma and amnesia_ officers handle the situation!”  
   
“If we do that, the Captain will be in even more danger,” Spock said.  
   
“Oh?  And how do you figure?”  
   
“You must trust me on this, Doctor.”  
   
“Trust you?  _Trust you?_   For god’s sake man, you were a complete wreck yesterday and now you want me to follow you guns blazing into some foolhardy situation?  Are you crazy?”  
   
“You must trust me, Doctor,” Spock repeated, willing himself to be calm, knuckles starting to whiten as he gripped his PADD.  “I know—”  
   
“What, Spock.  What do you know?”  
   
“I am not at liberty to discuss—”  
   
McCoy stopped the car and killed the engine.  He turned to face Spock.  “Now you listen to me,” he said.  “I’ve followed you this far, but what you’re talking about is worthy of court martial.  Now, if I’m going to be dishonorably discharged from the Fleet, it had better be for a goddamn good reason.  So tell me what the hell is going on or I swear this car will go nowhere but San Francisco – flowers in your hair or not!”  
   
Silence.  Outside the hovercar, the dry air of the high desert blew small dust flurries, and wind ghosted between ponderosa pine branches.  After a stare-off that seemed to last forever, Spock slumped and turned away.  
   
“I spoke to the Captain, yesterday,” Spock said.  
   
McCoy furrowed his brow, “I don’t understand.”  
   
“I found his mind,” Spock attempted to clarify.  “He and I— we have a mental connection and it was hidden before, but yesterday the— the blockade on my mind was removed and I found him . . .” he took a breath, looked back at McCoy.  “He thinks I’m dead,” he said woodenly.  “He . . . wept, for me.  I have never—” he cut himself off and looked out the window.  
   
Slowly, very slowly, as if he were an animal that might spook, McCoy reached out and gently touched Spock’s shoulder.  “Spock,” he said.  “It’s okay to say it.  I’m not— I’m not judging you.  You don’t have to explain yourself to me.  Just— tell me what happened.”  
   
Spock gradually nodded.  “They had a machine,” he said.  “It was meant to illicit obedience through pain, to control the recipient’s mind.  They attempted to use it only once, but the process did not go as expected.  There was a factor they had not considered.”  
   
“Jim,” said McCoy.  It was always Jim.  
   
“Yes,” Spock confirmed.  “I was in pain, and fighting the machine and the man behind it with all my mental strength, but it wasn’t enough.  So Jim . . .” He took a deep breath, “He gave me his strength,” he said.  “He gave me his mind.”  His fists clenched, “He probably did not even know what he was doing, if he had understood the consequences—” Spock stopped and shook his head.  “Jim’s mental strength combined with my own was sufficient to fight off the influence of the machine but the strain was too much and so,” he shrugged, a human gesture he had picked up during his time in Starfleet.  “They dumped my body in the desert, content in the assumption that either my psyche was broken and under their complete control, that I would complete the task they had set for me— or that I was completely brain dead, and thus would not be able to reveal their purpose, or the location of their final hostage.”  
   
McCoy sat back, rubbing his cheek with the side of his hand thoughtfully.  “That’s an awful lot to take in,” he said.  He folded his arms as a thought struck him, “What does all this have to do with Jim being in even more danger if we contact Starfleet or any other authorities?”  
   
Spock looked away again.  “When Jim gave me his strength, I— we saw into the mind of the man who had had us abducted and tortured,” he said carefully.  He did not mention the _thing_ that did not belong in the back of his mind, taking up residence next to the stream that embodied Jim.  
   
McCoy leaned forward, “You know what he’s planning?  Who he is? What he wants?”  
   
“I know he has connections to Starfleet,” Spock said, “But his face is strangely blurred to me, which is why we must not contact them for assistance.  I know that he sees Jim as bait to bring me back again, but expendable if I bring in the authorities.  I cannot risk that.  And as for what he wants . . .” he looked straight at McCoy, who felt a sudden, ominous shiver.  
   
“He wants you, Dr. McCoy,” he said.  “And he wants me to bring you to him.”  
 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

  
**Chapter 6**  
   
“What?” McCoy felt faint.  “You’re kidding.”  
   
“Vulcans do not ‘kid,’” said Spock.   
   
“But, but,” McCoy sputtered, “What the hell did I ever do?  I don’t know any security secrets, or whatever!  I’m just a doctor, damn it, not some goddamn intergalactic spy or what have you!  Christ!”  
   
Spock watched with interest as McCoy’s face grew steadily redder.  He blinked as the doctor suddenly turned to him, “You weren’t planning to just give me to him, were you?” he asked.  
   
Spock allowed the bottoms of his mouth to turn down in the faintest of frowns, “Of course not,” he said.  “That would hardly be ethical.”  
   
“Right,” McCoy muttered fervently, wiping his hands on his shirt, “not ethical.”  
   
“I was planning to tell you and then ask you to make an informed choice as to whether or not you would be amenable to being ‘bait,’” Spock continued smoothly.  
   
McCoy choked.  “Bait?” he said.  
   
Spock nodded gravely.  “I will never be able to get close enough to the Captain to stage a rescue unless they have a reason to let me.  You, Dr. McCoy, would be that reason.  If you accompany me then they will believe that their scheme has worked, and that they control some aspect of my mind.  By the time they discover their mistake it will be too late.”  
   
“Huh,” Dr. McCoy said.  “And you’re sure they have Jim.”  
   
“Yes,” Spock said.  
   
“Well then.”   McCoy squared his shoulders.  “I don’t suppose you’d have any idea what they want to do to me when they get their hands on me?”  
   
“On the contrary,” Spock said, “They intend to kill you in the most lingering, painful way possible.”  
   
McCoy stared at him.  “Right,” he said weakly.  “That makes everything sound so much better.  He drew a breath, then looked at Spock.  “So, which way are we headed?”  
   
Spock permitted himself the smallest of tiny smiles.  “East,” he said.  “Jim is to the east.”  
   
“How far east is east?” McCoy demanded.  
   
“Far enough to need a Transport,” Spock replied, “As I mentioned several minutes ago.”  
   
“Lord have mercy,” McCoy muttered.  “Starfleet’s going to have a fit.  You’re not supposed to be anywhere but under their supervision.  We’ll have to use someone else’s credit chip.  
   
“It is of no concern,” Spock said, “I have access to the funds from the Vulcan Embassy.”  
   
McCoy gaped at him.  “You spoiled brat, does your father know you plan to use taxpayer money to stage an illegal rescue mission?” he exclaimed.  
   
“Not precisely, no,” Spock admitted.  His eyes flickered towards his lap.  “But as the Captain might say,” he said, “What he does not know cannot hurt him at this juncture.”  
   
“I don’t think that’s exactly how Jim would go about saying it.”  McCoy scowled at the dashboard.   
   
“Regardless,” Spock said, “The philosophy stands.”  
   
McCoy rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, “I’m going to regret this,” he said to the cracked sunroof as he started up the hovercar and pointed it towards the nearest city with a Transport Station, “I just know it.”  
   
The closest Transport Station turned out to be in the city of Bend.  Unfortunately, the station was small enough that it required them to first take a transport to Portland, then transfer in Salt Lake, and again in Atlanta (“Damn, it’s been years since I’ve set foot in Georgia, feels like coming home!”) before they finally stumbled off their last Transport a day later in the town of Leesburg, Virginia.  
   
“You know Spock, if you’d known that Jim was ‘east’ somewhere a week ahead of time, we wouldn’t have had to transfer so many damn times,” McCoy snarked as they collected what little luggage they had.  
   
“I have reserved a hotel room and a hovercar,” Spock said, sweeping past him and out the doors.   
   
McCoy swore and chased after him.  
   
The hotel was a lot nicer than McCoy expected.  His suspicions as to why were answered when the concierge confirmed that they had received ‘Mr. Sarek’s accommodation request,’ and that their rooms were ready.  And also that there was a package for ‘Mr. Sarek’ to pick up at his convenience – unless he preferred to have it brought to him?  
   
“When did you even have time to mail anything?” McCoy hissed as Spock graciously accepted the offer of having the package delivered right to their door within the hour.  
   
“I had time to contact Lieutenant Uhura on an encrypted channel and request that she send me some items with all due haste,” Spock replied.  He raised an eyebrow.  “Now if you will excuse me, Doctor.  I intend to bathe.” And he shut the bathroom door behind him with a resounding _click_.  
   
McCoy groaned as he stretched out on one of the twin beds, rotating his shoulders to work out the worst of the kinks from being cramped up in tiny seats during their multi-staged Transport journey.  
   
A knock at the door had him almost jumping out of his skin, and he approached it cautiously, aware that if Starfleet had happened to send someone after them and he needed an escape route, they were still several feet above the ground floor.  But the only person on the other side was a rather bored looking member of the hotel staff, who thrust a PADD at McCoy and told him to “Sign for Mr. Sarek’s package, please.”  Dumbly, McCoy did so and nearly squeaked when the package was thrust at him.  He carried it at arms length away from his torso back into the room and set it down on the desk warily.  
   
“You may open it,” Spock said from right behind his ear.   
   
This time, McCoy did make a rather undignified noise in his surprise as he turned around and said angrily.  “Damn it Spock, don’t walk so quietly or I’ll make you stick on some little elf bells to match your little elf ears so help me!”  
   
“I apologize for startling you,” Spock said, clearly lying through his teeth as he glided away.  
   
“Right,” McCoy huffed.  
   
“Vulcans do not lie,” Spock said self righteously.  
   
“Of course they don’t, _Mr. Sarek_ ,” McCoy sniped back.  
   
Spock had the grace to blush a little.  “I will open the package,” he said, and brought out a pocketknife from within his small suitcase.  He slit the tape holding the cardboard, and opened it to reveal,  
   
“High grade weaponry,” McCoy said in an unnaturally high voice.  “Wow, Spock.  You’re really going all out.  Who did Uhura blackmail into getting these for you?”  
   
Spock reached into the box to pull out the meanest looking thing-that-might-sort-of-have-been-vague

ly-related-to-the-phaser-at-one-point McCoy had ever seen and examined it with a critical eye.  “Jim’s life is at stake,” he said, setting it gently down on the desk and pulling out what looked like the bastard child of Spock’s Vulcan _lirpa_ and a ninja throwing star.  “I take that very seriously.”  
   
McCoy swallowed as his gaze took in the remaining contents of the box: more phasers, knives, handheld explosives, even something that looked like a Klingon disrupter.  
   
“I can see that,” McCoy said weakly.  “Um, I don’t suppose you know how to operate all these . . . things?”  
   
“Naturally,” Spock said.  
   
“Great,” McCoy said.  “I think I’ll go to bed now and try not think about how many intergalactic laws we’re going to break tomorrow.”  
   
“Technically, we shall only be breaking five— potentially six, laws.”  
   
“That makes me feel so much better,” McCoy said dryly.  “Goodnight, Spock.”   
   
“Goodnight, Doctor,” Spock replied.   
   
McCoy’s last vision before he fell into a restless slumber was Spock meditating quietly on the floor next to his table of weaponry.  
   
Spock did meditate that night, his first successful meditation in a long while, but he also slept.  And of course, once he slept, he dreamt.  
   
 _“It seems that now that we are linked and the block is lifted, I will be forever wandering into your dreams,” Spock said to Jim.  “My apologies.”_  
   
 _Jim waved his hand, “It’s not like I didn’t dream about you anyway,” he said dismissively.  “No biggie.”_  
   
 _“When this unpleasantness is behind us I will speak to a Vulcan mind healer about minimizing the effects of the link,” Spock promised._  
   
 _“Whatever you want.” Jim shrugged, and leaned back against the walls of his stone prison._  
   
 _“Is he— is he hurting you here?” Spock made himself ask.  He knew he would not like the answer, but he had to know._  
   
 _Jim shook his head.  “Not particularly,” he said.  “I don’t even think he’s here a lot of the time, actually.  All I ever see is goons.  And they don’t even do anything just— the loneliness and boredom is starting to get to me,” he confessed.  “Being asleep is the best part of, well, the day I guess.  If you can call it that.”_  
   
 _“I see,” Spock sat on the floor.  “Jim . . .”_  
   
 _“Yeah, Spock?” He sounded vulnerable, tentative.  Spock swallowed._  
   
 _“I need you to do something for me.”_  
   
 _No hesitation.  “Anything.”_  
   
 _“When the time comes,” Spock said.  “I will need you to think of me.”_  
   
 _“Like that’s a chore,” Jim muttered._  
   
 _“I will need you to think of me as hard as you can,” Spock said.  “With every ounce of mental strength you have, you must pull me to you and you **must not let go**.  Do you understand?”_  
   
 _“Pretty arcane sounding instructions,” Jim said.  “Do I get to know why?”_  
   
 _“I—” Spock started, but Jim and the room were beginning to fade.  “Jim!”_  
   
 _“Spock?  Spock!” Jim’s voice echoed and vanished into the misty recesses of his mind.  With a sigh, Spock allowed himself to surface into consciousness._  
   
The next morning, Spock drove the hovercar north like a man possessed.  McCoy was grateful for the stop they had made at the grocery store before their departure, because barring McCoy barking at him to, “Pull over at the next rest area or there was going to be an accident,” Spock barely allowed the ‘car to slow.  
   
By the time evening fell, they were well on their way up the eastern coast, and McCoy was coaxing Spock to stay at a hotel instead of driving straight through the night.  
   
“Look at it this way,” he said.  “You’ll be no help to him exhausted.  And I know,” he said, as Spock opened his mouth to argue, “Vulcans need less rest than humans, bla bla blah you’re all supermen or whatever.”  He fixed Spock with a beady eye.  “But you listen to me,” he said.  “You’ve been through too much over the past month for it not to have affected you!  Just— give yourself one more night’s rest and . . . Spock?  Spock, are you listening to me?”   
   
Spock was slowing the ‘car down.  And then without warning, he swerved right to take a barely marked exit off the main road.  Silence settled over the ‘car as the brightly lit main road faded into the distance and the one they were on lost its high visibility light to older, dingier lamps.   
   
“Spock.”  
   
No answer.  
   
“Spock, where are we going?”  
   
More silence. Outside the ‘car, overgrown trees began to scrape at the sides, making an eerie scratching noise.  
   
That was the last straw.  “Damn it man, if I’m going to help your sorry ass, the least you could do is explain why in tarnation we look like we’re driving into the set of a horror holo!”  
   
Finally _, finally_ Spock stopped the ‘car.  He turned to regard McCoy, the dim light of the old road lamps reflecting the dark determination in his eyes.  “Jim is nearby this place,” he said.  
   
McCoy’s eyes bulged.  “What— how do you know that?”  
   
“I told you,” Spock said, unbuckling his seat belt and opening the door.  “He and I are linked.”  
   
McCoy got out as well, and they headed to the back of the car, where Spock opened up the trunk.  “So basically you’re telling me that you have a Jim-specific homing device in your brain,” he said.  “And I shouldn’t worry about it.”  
   
“That is correct,” Spock said.  He stripped off his lumpy sweater and stylish polo shirt and carefully folded them into the back before pulling on a long sleeved black shirt.  He then strapped a knife to his calf, and wrapped the deadliest looking utility belt McCoy had ever seen around his waist, buckling it firmly in front.  
   
“Damn Vulcan Voodoo,” McCoy said sourly, following Spock’s lead and picking up a phaser and sticking it into his belt.  “When we get back, I’m going to run you two through every scan possible and see how your brains match up.  I don’t care what the official Vulcan government policy is.  That’s just freaky.”  
   
“You are welcome to try,” Spock said, pulling on gloves.  
   
Glowering, McCoy strapped another phaser to his leg, then a small pack of medical supplies around his waist.  He looked up at Spock defensively.  “We don’t know what condition we’re going to find him in, or what condition we’re going to end up in.  Better to be safe than sorry.”  
   
Spock nodded, his eyes already searching out the road past where they had set the hovercar down.  “Agreed, Doctor,” he said.  
   
McCoy jerked his head.  “Should I assume we just keep going on this road?”  
   
“Indeed,” Spock said.  “I believe Jim is being held no more than half a mile ahead.  I chose to stop the car here so that we might maintain the element of surprise.  
   
“Good thinking,” McCoy said.  He glanced at Spock, taking in the full effect of the pacifist Vulcan all dolled up in the gear of war.  “Christ,” he said, “You look like Starfleet’s Special Forces.”  
   
“It is possible that that is where the majority of the equipment came from,” Spock admitted.  He grabbed a large coat and put it on over the rest of his clothing, hiding the weapons from view.  He handed another coat to McCoy, who quickly followed suit.  
   
McCoy heaved a breath.  “Why am I not surprised?  Now I can add potential theft of specialized equipment to our list of crimes.”  
   
“Doctor,” Spock said.  “Time is running short.”  
   
“I know, I know,” McCoy said.  He took one last long look at the contents of the trunk, then slammed it shut, zipped up his coat, and turned to Spock.  “Let’s go,” he said.  
   
The walk to where Spock said Jim was located was almost anticlimactic.  Although they stayed to the side of it, the road itself was well-marked, despite the lack of light.  They had been walking for about ten minutes when McCoy halted.   
   
“Spock,” he murmured urgently.  “Look.”  He pointed up towards the right, towards what looked like the window of an old farmhouse halfway hidden behind a tall strand of trees, maybe thirty meters in front of them.  “That’s the only house we’ve seen this whole time,” he said.  “Do you think he’s there?”  
   
Spock followed his gaze, then closed his eyes and concentrated.  When he opened them, he wore an expression that McCoy could not decipher on his normally calm features.  “Yes,” he said.  
   
McCoy moved closer to shielding the provided by the trees and crouched down.  “All right then,” he said.  “What’s the plan?”  
   
Spock blinked at him, then looked towards the house with consideration.  He looked back at McCoy, who felt a sudden sinking in his stomach.  
   
“Please,” McCoy stressed, “Tell me that your plan doesn’t consist of just walking up to the front door.  Let’s just break in through the back.”  
   
“It does not consist solely of walking up to the front door,” Spock repeated dutifully.  “However—”  
   
McCoy groaned, “Spock, your plan is starting to sound like something Jim cooked up.”  
   
“I have noticed,” Spock said carefully, “That despite the outwardly foolhardy appearance of many of the Captain’s plans, most of them have turned out to be successful on some level.”  
   
McCoy shook his head despairingly, “But Spock, that’s because Jim is the luckiest bastard in the galaxy.  That’s not because his plans are always that good!”  
   
“Do you have any better ideas, Doctor?” Spock queried.  His tone was mild but his eyes were like hardened flint.  “There are only three hovercars on the property, and only one of the windows is lit.  During my time in captivity with Jim, I witnessed only four individuals.  At most, I would suspect there are five or six in residence here.  I do not believe this is a large operation.  As for why we shall go by way of the front door.  Well, they _are_ expecting us, are they not?”  He tilted his head, eyebrow raised.  “If we arrive as they are expecting, whoever is awake will not have time to ‘raise an alarm,’ so to speak, as they would if they were to catch us breaking in.”  
   
McCoy gave him a hard stare, but clearly Spock was resolute.  “Fine,” he said shortly, after a moment.  “We’ll do it your way.  Do you plan to nerve pinch me, or should I just pretend?”  
   
“Whichever you would deem sufficient,” Spock said blandly.  “I have no opinion on the matter.”  
   
McCoy’s jaw worked.  “Right,” he said, and stood, brushing off his pants.  “Let’s get this over with.  I’m the bait,” he repeated to himself  
   
“Once we achieve our goal of getting inside,” Spock said, “We must make sure nothing and no one will be able to impede our progress in finding and collecting Jim.”  
   
“You mean you want us to take everyone in that house out,” McCoy translated slowly.  “No matter what.”  
   
“Only if they are in the way,” Spock said.  
   
“Believe me,” McCoy said grimly, double checking his phaser and setting it to the highest stun possible, “for what they did to Jim, anyone within a mile of this house is gonna be ‘in the way’.”  
   
They moved towards the front porch.  The moment Spock deemed their figures visible from the house should someone choose to look out the window, he gestured to McCoy, who immediately affected a sort of staggering walk, limbs limp and somewhat askew.  Spock moved closer and gripped McCoy around his midsection so as to give the appearance of handling a drugged captive.  At the same time, he reached for one of the phasers strapped to his waist and slipped it into his left sleeve.  Together, they made their uncoordinated way to the front porch and up the creaky wooden steps to the front door.  After a shared glance, Spock gave three sharp knocks.  
   
No one answered.  
   
“Told you we should have snuck in through the back,” McCoy whispered.  “Fuck, this is stupid.  You’re going to get us killed!”  
   
“Silence,” Spock hissed back.  He knocked again.  
   
“It’s not going to—” McCoy started, then froze as a light flickered on in one of the windows.  He dropped his head and pretended to slump to the side.  
   
“Who’s there?” called out a voice.  “I’m warning you, we don’t like trespassers out here.  This is private property.”  
   
“It is Spock,” Spock said clearly.  “I have brought Doctor McCoy as requested.  You are now obligated to release my Captain.”  
   
There was a split second of silence, and then quick, heavy footsteps sounded and the front door swung open.  Spock very calmly stared down the business end of a phaser.  “Fascinating,” he said.  “I would be most curious find out where you have obtained specialized equipment allotted only to Starfleet and law enforcement officers.”  
   
“I’ll be,” said the man holding the phaser, not lowering his weapon in the slightest.  “It’s the goddamn Vulcan.”  
   
“I have brought the Doctor,” Spock repeated.  
   
“Hell,” said the man.  He had balding patches of thin yellow hair sticking up in all directions, and dark circles under his eyes.  “I’ll bet you don’t even have the faintest clue why you did, either.  Brainwashed and all.”  He spat on the deck by Spock’s foot.  Spock did not budge.  
   
“Harris!” the man hollered suddenly, not taking his eyes off of Spock and McCoy.  “Harris, get everyone up.  The Vulcan’s back and he’s got the Doctor with him!”  
   
“What in the hell,” a second man appeared, rubbing his eyes at the light.  He halted at the sight of the two Starfleet officers, eyes widening in alarm.  “Jesus Christ, Walker,” he swore, backing off.  “How much you want to bet they brought the goddamn feds with them?”  
   
“Don’t be stupid,” Walker said.  He lowered his phaser slightly, turning to the other.  “You think feds would be dumb enough to just walk up to the front door and knock on it?”  
   
“There is no one else,” Spock said firmly.  And then he shifted slightly, let go of McCoy with a little shove, and slid the phaser that had been hidden in his sleeve neatly into his hand.  He took aim almost casually, and fired.  
   
As Walker slowly toppled over, an expression of abject shock clear on his face, Harris ducked to avoid Spock’s next shot, but failed to see McCoy crouch down and take aim at him from below.  He too, fell.  
   
“No one else will be necessary,” Spock remarked, stepping over the bodies.  He looked at McCoy, who had straightened up and was prodding the two on the floor with the toe of his boot.  “Anyone in the house could have heard that,” he said.  “We must move quickly.”  As he spoke, he took off his heavy jacket to free himself for more efficient movement.  
   
“No need to tell me twice,” McCoy said, taking off his coat as well.  “Where do you suppose the rest of them are?”  
   
“Sleeping, I suspect,” Spock replied.  He took the first few cautious steps into the front hallway.  
   
“And Jim?” McCoy asked, voice lowered to a whisper.  
   
“Jim is—” Spock started, and then stopped as lights flickered on and loud, confused, voices began to fill the house.  
   
“Shit,” said McCoy.  
   
“This way!” said Spock, tugging McCoy down and around a corner as a barrage of phaser fire sailed over their heads.  Spock fired back, hitting something that made a loud thunk as it dropped to the ground, but clearly missing the rest of their assailants, who fired again.  
   
“Damn,” said McCoy.  He looked accusingly at Spock.  “I thought you said there were only going to be five or six of them!”  
   
“I appear to have miscalculated,” Spock said through clenched teeth.  “It is of no consequence.”  He shot again.  “They have taken shelter behind the stairwell,” he said.  “We must come at them from another angle.”  
   
“I’ve got a better idea,” McCoy said, frantically indicating something over Spock’s left shoulder.  “Why don’t we get the fuck out of the way of whatever the fuck they just threw at us?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“That!”  
   
Spock spared a quick glance at the smoking handheld explosive that had just landed about a foot away from them.  
   
“Agreed,” he said, and they bolted down another hallway, trying to keep low to the ground as an explosion wracked the frames of the house where they had been moments before.   
   
McCoy smelled smoke and swore as they skidded into what appeared to be a large, although somewhat dingy, kitchen.  He slammed the door behind them and flipped the latch.  “What kind of fucking idiot uses a handheld explosive in a wooden house?” he roared as they ducked behind a cooking island in the middle of the kitchen to catch their breath.   “They've started a goddamn fire!”  
   
Spock said something that McCoy was pretty sure was not on the vocabulary list for Starfleet Academy’s Vulcan 101.  He gripped McCoy’s shoulder.  “We must find Jim,” he said urgently.  
   
“I know, I know!” McCoy snapped.  He shot a quick glance at the door they had just come through, then at another one opening up into a different room, and lunged to shut it as well.  “Do you know where he is?”  
   
“I— we were kept in a dark place, surrounded by stone.  Most likely a cellar.  Reinforced with a force field.”  
   
“Or a basement,” said McCoy.  He hit the floor with his fist.  “Damn it Spock, sometimes the cellars of these old houses weren’t even attached to the main house!  He could be anywhere in the area.”  
   
The shouts from the main room grew louder.  More phaser fire struck the door McCoy had closed, and sounds emanated from the direction of the second door.  
   
“No!” Spock said firmly.  “He is here!  He is below us.  Underground.”  
   
McCoy heaved a terse breath.  “Right,” he said.  He indicated the other door.  “That way,” he said.  “We’ll just have to try every door we see— fuck!” he coughed, “that fire’s starting to spread!”  
   
“Understood,” Spock said, and he and McCoy moved cautiously towards the second door.   
   
“On three,” McCoy said.  “I’ll open, and you fire every damn thing you’ve got.” Spock nodded.  “One, two, three!  Go!  Go!” McCoy swing open the door and jumped out of the way as Spock dropped to a crouch and opened fire on the two men running towards them.  One shouted as a phaser blast burned the side of his leg, stumbled and fell.  The other dodged out of the way and fired back at Spock, who turned to the side and received a few singed hairs on the side of his head for the trouble.  His phaser out of power, Spock dropped it and barreled straight towards the man.  The man pulled out a knife and delivered an overhand slash aimed at Spock’s temple.  Spock followed the man’s arm movement, stepping to the side and in front of him, then lifted the man’s arm out of the way, slid behind him, and delivered a nerve pinch.  He dropped without a struggle.  
   
McCoy trotted up beside him, looking casting wary glances up and down the hallway and back towards the kitchen.  “That’s maybe five down,” he said.  “Where are the rest of them?”  
   
“Behind us,” Spock said grimly, and shoved McCoy out of the way as the first kitchen door exploded in a cascade of wooden splinters.  Smoke billowed out, followed by phaser fire.  McCoy shot back as he and Spock raced down the hall, yanking on every door they passed, swearing as they turned out to be linen cupboards, small storage closets, and spare bedrooms.  
   
“How big is this damn house?” McCoy cursed, slamming closed the entrance of yet another cupboard filled with towels.  “And why so many towels?”  
   
“Here, Doctor!” Spock said, skidding to a halt in front of a nondescript looking wooden door.  Nondescript that is, except for the lack of doorknob or otherwise visible way to open it, and the security panel on the wall beside it.  
   
McCoy drew up next to him.  “Can you hack it?”  
   
Spock gave him a somewhat dirty look.  
   
“All right, jeeze, sorry I asked.  Just break into the damn thing already!  I’ll cover you.”  
   
Spock nodded, already opening up the panel and perusing the touchpad quickly.  Then without further ado, he ripped off the covering, exposing a tangle of blue and red and green wiring.  With the knife from his belt he slashed some of the red and blue wires, then twisted them together, brow furrowed in concentration.  
   
McCoy fired shots down the hall as Spock worked.  He glanced up, and then did a double take.  
   
“I thought you were going to hack the thing, not hotwire it!” he said as the wooden door slid open and a draft of cold air billowed up from downstairs.  He blinked.  “Huh, you must’ve learned that from Jim.”  
   
“Actually,” Spock said distractedly, already halfway down the steps.  “I learned the skill when I was fifteen years old in order to sabotage a peer’s hovercar.”  
   
“You _what?_ ” McCoy said.  
   
“Later, Doctor,” Spock said warningly.  He peered up at a gaping McCoy, who was still standing at the foot of the stairs.  “Are you coming?”  
   
McCoy shook his head, “You get Jim,” he said.  “I’ll stay up here and make sure your Vulcan ass can get back through this door.”  
   
Spock looked startled for a brief second, and then his face cleared, and he nodded. “My thanks,” he said, and then twisted around and raced down the rest of the stairs.  McCoy watched him vanish into the dark, then put his back to the doorway and pulled out a second phaser.  
   
“All right you bastards,” he said quietly, holding the weapon loosely in his hand.  “Give McCoy here all you’ve got.”  
   
At the bottom of the stairs, Spock’s footfalls sounded unnaturally loud as he burst into the stone room.  It looked exactly the same as he had seen in his dreams; exactly the same as he remembered.  A force field shimmered only a few feet from him and through it he could see Jim.  
   
 _Jim_!  Spock’s knees went weak with relief.  The Captain was slumped against the side of the wall, deeply asleep, but Spock could see the rise and fall of his chest, as well as the shivers wracking his frame.  He looked skinnier than Spock remembered, and dirty, but _alive_.  Still alive.  
   
“Jim,” he said.  “Jim!”  
   
Jim did not move.  
   
Spock looked around frantically for the controls to the force field.  Spying another panel, he wrenched off the top and set to cutting and twisting wires again, hands trembling with adrenaline and fear.  
   
The force field vanished.  
   
Spock hurried over and fell to his knees beside his captain.  “Jim,” he whispered, “I’m here.  You must wake up.  We must leave.”  Gently he touched Jim’s face, then frowned as he felt the heat of his skin.  
   
Jim’s eyes cracked open, bleary and fever bright.  “Spock?” he whispered.  He coughed, and Spock squeezed his hand tightly.  “Spock?  Am I hallucinating again?” He closed his eyes, sagging back away from the wall and down to the floor.  Spock caught him before he could reach it, and maneuvered him to rest against his torso.  
   
Spock swallowed, “No,” he said.  “I am real.” He rubbed his hands down Jim’s arms, trying to warm him.  
   
“Fuck,” Jim said, not opening his eyes.  He shivered again.  “That’s what my hallucinations always say.”  
   
“I am not a hallucination,” Spock said a bit more firmly.  He looked up at the sounds of more weapons discharging above them, then back down at Jim.  “Do you think you are able to walk?”  
   
“Oh, definitely,” Jim said, limply waving one hand around, his tone weak but dismissive.  Nodding, Spock stood, hauling Jim up by the armpits.  He tentatively released his grip, but quickly moved his hands back to prevent an imminent collapse as Jim swayed.  
   
“Apparently not today, Captain,” Spock said, and lifted him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.  There was a muted sound of protest, but Jim was seemingly too tired to struggle.  Spock headed for the stairs, right hand holding a steady phaser, left hand curled securely over Jim’s waist.  
   
“Spock!” McCoy shouted down the steps, his voice echoing off the stone walls.  “You’d better hurry up!  This whole damn place is about to go up in flames!”  
   
Spock climbed quickly.  At the top, McCoy turned to regard him and then his eyes widened at the site of Jim slung over Spock’s shoulder, taking in the flushed cheeks and glazed stare.  
   
“Jim!” he said, as Spock slid him off his shoulder, but kept a tight grip around the weakened captain’s midsection to hold him steady.  
   
“Bones?” Jim asked dimly, “What are you doing here?”  He reached out a hand to presumably touch McCoy, who caught it, then rested his own hand against Jim’s forehead.  
   
“Fuck,” he said.  “He’s burning up.  And I can’t treat him right here.”  Jim coughed, and McCoy’s eyes narrowed, “and the smoke isn’t doing him any favors,” he said.  “We’ve got to get out.”  
   
Spock nodded sharply.  “Through one of the windows in one of the spare bedrooms we passed,” he said.  “I believe all the doors to the outside are blocked.”  
   
“Either they’re blocked or they’re a fucking inferno,” McCoy agreed, “let’s go.”  
   
Sliding through a window with flames behind them while carrying a captain who could barely stand, let alone walk, was not easy.  McCoy went first, standing on a lumpy bed as he stuck both feet out the window, and then slid to the ground outside, narrowly avoiding the sharp edges of the screen Spock had punched through moments earlier.  They then pushed and pulled at the Captain to get him through the window as well, aware that at any moment, someone whom McCoy had missed with his shots might sneak up behind them to deliver a fatal blow.  Spock went last, climbing neatly through the window as though breaking and entering were an activity he partook in on a daily basis.  
   
As Spock’s feet hit the ground, he gestured for McCoy to hand Jim back over.  Somewhat reluctantly, McCoy did so, and Spock swung the captain up into his arms.  Kirk mumbled something that could have been a protest.  
   
“I wish I had a camera,” said McCoy.  
   
Spock ignored him, turning and starting to walk towards the front of the burning house, and the road that led them to their rented hovercar.  McCoy followed.  
   
“We must contact Starfleet,” Spock said as they rounded the corner by the front porch.  “We must tell them we have the Captain in custody and that—” he froze.  
   
“And that I have the Doctor,” said the mysterious man from Spock’s broken memory, and dreams that were not dreams.  
   
Spock’s eyes narrowed, and McCoy’s jaw dropped.  
   
“You!” he said.  
   
A small smile tugged at the corner of the shadow man’s mouth.  “Me,” Dr. Valdez agreed easily.  He leveled a phaser at McCoy, its red light blinking rapidly, warning the holder that the weapon was set to kill.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

**CHAPTER 7**

  
McCoy stared at him, aghast.  “What— we’re colleagues!  What the hell did I ever do to you?”  
   
Valdez cocked his head.  “It’s all so much to explain in so little time,” he said thoughtfully.  “Why don’t you ask the Commander over there?  I’ve told him what I thought of you once or twice, and I know he has a way with words.”  
   
 _“. . . Disgusting, unnatural, abomination . . .”_  
   
Spock swallowed, the phrases floating back to him, their venomous hatred made even more potent by the burning eyes of the man in front of them.  
   
McCoy slowly turned his head to stare at Spock.  “Spock?” he asked quietly.   
   
“Of course,” Valdez said.  “He might not remember everything.  I did do a number on his brain.  I was actually worried there for a moment that I had gone too far, and that there was no way he’d even remember what I’d told him to do.”  He shook his head.  “I even worried that I’d be left with a useless hostage, though,” he leveled his gaze to Jim, who had fallen unconscious in Spock’s arms once more, “I don’t think it would’ve been a problem after a week or so.  Captain Kirk hasn’t been in the best of health lately.”  
   
“Damn you!” growled McCoy, his fists clenching helplessly.  “What the fuck do you want with me?  What the fuck did you want with them?”  
   
Valdez stepped closer.  “Although,” he began, pursing his lips as if in deep thought, “I’ve heard that even if Captain Kirk was dead, you’d be able to bring him back.  Wouldn’t you, McCoy?”  
   
“You’re crazy,” said McCoy, moving closer to Spock and Kirk.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
   
“Oh?” Valdez gave out a thin smile that was little more than a grimace.  “So maybe I’ve been mistaken – what _have_ you been doing with all that research money that you gave up your vacation to get?”  
   
McCoy snarled, “Research, asshole!  Medical research!”  
   
Apparently that was too much for Valdez.  “Don’t lie to me!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth.  “I know what you’re researching!  I know why Starfleet won’t fund it!”  He brandished the phaser like a saber.   
   
“The hell— I’ll bet you don’t even know a damned thing, you crazy motherfucker!”  
   
Valdez shook with unrestrained rage.  He pointed an accusing finger at McCoy.  “You swore an oath to protect— and _now_ what are you doing?”  
   
McCoy stared furiously at him, but did not answer.  
   
Valdez turned the phaser towards Spock, and moved his finger on the trigger.  “ _What are you doing, McCoy_?” he demanded.  “Say it or I’ll shoot them right here!”  
   
“All right, all right!” McCoy held up his hands.  “Cloning!  Just cloning, damn you!  People’ve been doing it for hundreds of years!”  
   
Valdez sneered, and aimed the phaser back at him.  “Don’t sugarcoat it, McCoy!  I read the proposal!  You want to take the cells of the unconsenting dead and buried, and _clone_ them to see if you can bring them back to life!  It’s unnatural!  It’s against every moral and ethical standpoint, every law of nature!”  
   
McCoy’s eyes grew larger with each accusation.  “That’s not what it’s about!” he protested angrily.  “I’m not making Frankenstein’s monster, I’m trying to save lives!”  
   
“The dead are meant to stay dead!” Valdez bellowed.  “You can’t wave your medical license and bring them back to life!  What’ll be next?  What’ll be next, McCoy?  You’re sick!  You’re wrong!”  
   
“At least I’m not an insane fucking criminal!”  
   
“Don’t call me crazy!  I’m not the crazy one here— I’m not the one trying to play God!”  
   
As Veldez continued to spew insults at McCoy, stepping closer with every other word, Spock shook Jim’s shoulder.  
   
“Jim,” he whispered.  “Jim, you must wake up.”  
   
“Whaa?” Jim mumbled.  “Spock?”  
   
“Jim, you must think of me,” Spock told him.  
   
“I’m always thinking about you,” Jim objected.  “Why is everyone shouting?  Ugh, I feel dizzy.”  
   
“Think of me!” Spock said sharply.  Valdez was nearly chest to chest with McCoy now, who in turn now seemed so angry that he appeared to not even register the phaser aimed for his heart.  
   
“Killing me isn’t going to make a goddamn difference— there’s tons of other scientists working on this thing!”  
   
“They’ll never succeed without you!” Valdez retorted.  “Without the famed Dr. McCoy, medical genius, they’ll never even make the testing stages!”  He raised the phaser even higher, his fingers inching again towards the trigger.  
   
“Don't do this!” said McCoy.  
   
“I’m not doing this because I want to,” Valdez told him.  “I’m doing this to protect my children, and this Federation from your perversion of science and thought!”  
   
Desperately, Spock urged Jim into a standing position, letting him lean against him, and then latched his free fingers onto Jim’s meld points and flowed into his mind.   
   
 _“Now, Jim!” he said.  “Think of me!  Draw my mind to yours!”_  
   
 _“But why?”_  
   
 _“Just do it!” Spock pleaded.  “Trust me!”_  
   
 _After a moment, Jim obeyed._  
   
 _Strong tendrils, like vines or tree roots fastened themselves to Spock’s mind, tugging.  In turn, Spock delved into his own psyche and found that river that belonged to Jim, and next to it, oozing around it, that thing that did not belong.  Spock clawed at it, trying as hard as he could to rip it from where it had stuck into the corners of his thoughts._  
   
Outside, Valdez suddenly shuddered.  “What?” he began, turning almost hesitantly to look at Spock.  McCoy turned too, just in time to see Spock take one crucial step forward, Jim in tow, and reach out a hand to touch Valdez’s face.  
   
Valdez’s eyes widened and he staggered and dropped to his knees, phaser tumbling out of his grasp.  Spock and Kirk sank down with him, Spock not letting go of either of them, driving into Valdez’s mind with the force of a hurricane.  
   
 _Spock snarled at that thing that had stuck itself in his mind all those weeks ago, cursing him with a connection he did not want, drawing his mind to two opposite directions, to two different people.  “You do not belong here!” Spock said fiercely.  He could feel Jim pulling at him, each jerk stronger than the last, but Valdez resisted, planting himself out of pure, instinctive survival._  
   
 _“You’ve been in my mind?” Valdez accused.  Anger and fear and hate poured from his connection to Spock.  Spock doubled his efforts, focusing on the river that linked him to Jim, its current flowing with friendship, trust, affection, and determination._  
   
 _“Correction,” Spock grunted, “You have been in mine.”  He took a deep, centering breath, immersing his mental self in the water of Jim’s mind.  “But now I cast thee out!”_  
   
 _And he set to the connection with all his strength and Jim’s; rending at it with claws borrowed from a mental construct of a le-matya, and sharp edges from broken familial bonds left over from Vulcan That Was.  He ripped, and tore, and pulled and cut with everything he could muster until finally, with a great heave and a sting of pain that was immediately washed away by Jim’s mental presence, he slashed the mental connection with Valdez in two._  
   
Spock tumbled backwards, his fingers numb, still clutching his Captain to him as on his knees, Valdez opened blank eyes and screamed his agony to the night sky.  
   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
The first to come were the firefighters.  Unbeknownst to either Spock or McCoy, as soon as the smoke alarms went off in the house, they were on their way.  Unfortunately, the distance from the fire station to the house was enough so that they took their own sweet time getting there.  Upon seeing the three Starfleet officers surrounded by copious amounts of weaponry and destruction, the woman in charge immediately called for police backup.  
   
By the time Starfleet showed up, Spock, McCoy, and a mute, unresponsive Valdez were all in handcuffs.  Jim and several others were being treated in a fleet of ambulances (much to McCoy’s ire:  “How dare you put him in the same ambulance as the guys that tried to kill him!  Just let me do it!”) and Spock was refusing to give a statement.  
   
“What in the hell is going on here?”  Admiral Pike said, beaming into the clearing with an entourage of security officers and all the patience of an angry bull.  His gaze landed on Spock and McCoy, “Why are my officers cuffed?”  He looked around, “Where’s Jim Kirk?”  
   
“He is in the ambulance, Admiral,” Spock said from inside the cop ‘car.  “He has a high grade fever, is malnourished and delirious, but he is alive.”  
   
Pike closed his eyes briefly, “Thank god,” he muttered, momentarily leaning back against the backrest of his wheelchair in relief.  His eyes snapped open in an instant and leveled on Spock.  “And you!” he signaled to one of his security officers, who stepped up beside him as he wheeled himself up to the cop ‘car.   
   
Inside, Spock had to work very hard not to shrink away from Pike’s obvious ire.  In the seat next to him, McCoy looked down.  “What the hell were you thinking?” Pike growled, “You were under explicit orders to stay–” suddenly, Pike noticed a very eager police officer listening intently, and holding a recording device.  “. . . Stay the course,” Pike finished disgustedly.  “And not let things get out of hand!”  
   
McCoy looked up.  
   
“Apologies, Admiral,” Spock said, attempting to look contrite and mostly just succeeding in looking like a blank wall that somehow radiated smugness.  
   
But Pike wasn’t finished yet, “Does this look like it’s in hand to you?”  
   
“We did recover the Captain,” Spock pointed out from the safety of the double barred windows of the police vehicle.  McCoy elbowed him in the side as Pike’s ears turned red.  
   
“You— You’ve been placed in custody!  There’s a house on fire! Jesus Christ,” Pike took a deep breath, then rubbed his hands with his face.  “Vulcans!” he said fervently.  The police officer that had been attempting to get a statement out of Spock looked mildly sympathetic.  
   
“Admiral,” said the head policewoman, “Am I to understand that these two have been operating under Starfleet orders?”  
   
“I— yes,” said Pike vaguely.  “It was very high up,” he added lamely, seeing her doubtful look.  “You can release them now.”  
   
“I see.”  She fixed Pike with a glare.  “And that one?” she indicated Valdez, who was sitting quietly in another ambulance, hands cuffed behind his back.   
   
Pike peered at him.  “Dr. Valdez?” he said in confusion.  The doctor did not reply, continuing to stare blankly ahead.  
   
McCoy could not contain himself.  “That’s the bastard that kidnapped Jim and Spock!” he said angrily.  
   
“He appears to be in shock,” said the policewoman severely.  “The EMT’s say it’s likely due to severe telepathic trauma.”  Her tone of voice left no doubt as to whom she thought was responsible for the trauma.  She moved closer to Pike.  “They’ve broken the law, Admiral.  Even if it was under orders.”  
   
Resigned, Pike squared his shoulders.  “Starfleet will take full responsibility for their actions,” he said quietly.  “Furthermore, Dr. Valdez will also be placed into Starfleet custody.  There will be an internal investigation, as well as an investigation in conjunction with the local law enforcement to find out what happened here.”  
   
“This is my jurisdiction,” the policewoman snapped.   
   
“I know,” Pike said tiredly, running his hand through his hair.  “Now, please release them so I can take them back to Starfleet Headquarters and court martial them.”  
   
As the police officers moved to release Spock and McCoy into the custody of Pike’s security force, Pike wheeled over to see to the status of Starfleet’s finest captain.  He looked down at the unconscious Jim, squeezing his hand for a moment, “You’re damn lucky they found you,” he murmured, brushing a hand through limp blond hair, grown longer than regulation through neglect.  He noted the thinness of his frame, and the unshaven face flushed with fever, and shook his head.  
   
After a moment or two, he affixed a transponder to Jim’s shirt and spoke into his communicator.  “This is Admiral Pike, emergency code alpha, alpha, gamma, five, three, six, two.  Requesting immediate transport to Starfleet Headquarters via Space Station Three.”  
   
“Beam up request understood,” came the reply.  “How many?”  
   
“Twelve to beam up, all members of the party in possession of transponders signaling code Ecta-five.”  
   
“Understood.  Please stand by.  Locking on to all signals beaming code Ecta-five.”  
   
And the transporter gripped them and they were gone.  
   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
   
McCoy had been grimly prepared to spend the night – possibly the next few, in fact –in the county jail with a cellmate named Bubba, so he was pleasantly surprised to be shown to standard Starfleet barracks and placed under house arrest instead.  
   
Spock was not so docile.  
   
“I wish to see the Captain,” Spock requested.  The security officers watching the door exchanged glances.   
   
“I’m sorry, Commander,” one of them said, something like apprehension mixed with pity in his brown eyes.  “You’re confined to quarters until your trial.”  
   
“Which is when, exactly?” McCoy asked from his seat on the bland sofa.  
   
The second officer shrugged, “Sometime next week, most likely,” she said.  
   
Spock’s eyes narrowed, “I must see the Captain immediately.”  
   
“Spock, he’s unconscious,” McCoy said, “Maybe when—”  
   
“I do not care!” Spock barked.  The two security officers flinched, most likely having never been exposed to a Vulcan’s anger before.  Spock made a threatening move forward, and McCoy decided that things had gone far enough.  
   
“Spock,” he said sharply.  Spock stilled, hands still by his sides, but curled into fists.  “Spock,” McCoy repeated more quietly.  He got off the sofa and stepped up to him.  Hesitantly, he touched Spock’s shoulder and turned him around to face him.  “Look at me,” he said.  Spock shook his head, eyes averted.  McCoy shook him a little, “Look at me,” he said, voice louder.  Reluctantly, Spock looked up.  
   
“I must see him,” he said hoarsely.  
   
“I know,” McCoy said, “I know.”  He looked past Spock over to the security guards still standing by the doorway, nervously fingering the phasers on their belts.  “You can go now,” he said, his voice brooking no argument.  “Give us some privacy.”  
   
They left, closing the door behind them.  
   
When they had gone, Spock’s shoulders slumped more visibly.  McCoy led him over to the sofa and sat him down.   
   
“Stay here,” he said.  “They’ve left us with a sink and a water heater, so I’ll make up some tea.”  
   
Spock nodded, staring at his hands.  When the water was hot, McCoy filled two mugs with some jasmine tea and brought it over.  Spock fingered the mug listlessly, then set it down to rest on the table next to the sofa.  
   
They sat in silence for a moment, then McCoy spoke.  “Jim’s going to be all right,” he said.  “Even if I’m not there, they’ll make sure he gets the best care.”  When Spock did not reply, he cleared his throat.  “I— but I’m worried about his mental state.  Being imprisoned, alone, neglected— he’s going to need us.  But we can’t— you’re not in the best place right now to help him, you see?  We—” he stopped as he saw Spock shaking his head slowly, as if denying McCoy’s words.  
   
“It doesn’t matter,” Spock said, voice quiet, “Even if I were dying and my body broken, I would still be beside him.  I—” he shuddered.  “My control is poor.   My apologies, Doctor.“  
   
McCoy passed a hand over his face, and leaned forward intently.  “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.  You’ve been through hell, Spock.  And before you run off and shoulder all of Jim’s burdens for him, you’ve got to take care of yourself.  You can’t help him if you’re a wreck.”  
   
Spock’s breath hitched.  “You speak . . . logically,” he managed, “It is most unusual.”  
   
“Thanks,” McCoy said dryly, leaning back again.  
   
“I just . . . I want to see him,” Spock said.  His voice was small and lonely, like a lost child’s.  “Logically, I know he is being cared for.  Logically, I know Valdez is under the highest security, and what’s more, his mind is broken.  Logically . . .” he trailed off.  “But there is no logic when it comes to the Captain,” he said.  “I must see him.  Can you understand that?”  
   
McCoy heaved a breath.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I can.”  He stood up and headed for the door.  Cracking it open, he stuck his head through the opening and spied the two security guards down the hall.  “Hey,” he called to them.  They straightened up immediately.  “Get Admiral Pike down here,” he said.   
   
They looked at him warily.  “We don’t have the authorization to—”  
   
“Bullshit,” McCoy said.  “I’m Chief Medical Officer of the Fleet’s flagship.  You have authorization if I say you have authorization, now go comm. the man!”  
   
“But, you’re scheduled to be court martialed,” one of them ventured.  McCoy scowled.  
   
“Have I been stripped of my rank yet?  No?  Then move your ass!”  
   
They scattered to do his bidding.  
   
“Lord,” McCoy grumbled, retreating back into the room and shutting the door, “That whole department needs a work over.”  He planted his hands on his hips.  “Now drink your goddamn tea,” he said to Spock.  
   
Pike showed up thirty minutes later.  
   
“Is there any way to stop you from terrorizing the security?” he asked sardonically as he wheeled his way into the room.  “I know what you want,” he said, as McCoy opened his mouth, “and you can’t have it.  You’re damn lucky to be here instead of in a civilian prison.  I’m not going to give you leave to wander around a hospital!”  
   
“No disrespect meant, Admiral,” McCoy said, “But you damn well should.”  His gaze flickered over to Spock, and Pike followed it.  He frowned.  
   
“What’s wrong with Spock?”  
   
“What’s wrong?  What’s _wrong?_ ” McCoy’s voice rose an octave.  “What’s wrong is that he’s been through extreme trauma, that’s what’s wrong!  He had amnesia until some Vulcan healer dug out his memories for him!  He’s been kidnapped and mentally manipulated!   He thought Jim was dead and now,” his voice dropped to a fierce whisper, “despite all the damn, stupid logic he’s trying to hold on to, he still believes in his core that Jim is dying, that’s he’s lost to him.  And speaking of Jim,” McCoy’s eyes blazed, “He might need medical care and rest but he also needs _us_ , damn it.  More than that, he needs _Spock_.  He thought Spock was dead, and he’s not going to get much better until he’s convinced of the opposite.  You _know_ how those two are with each other.  That’s what’s wrong, damn it!”  
   
Pike blinked at him.  “I see,” he said neutrally.  He turned to look at Spock again.  “But what I meant was, why is he lying on the couch like that?”  
   
“Oh,” McCoy’s posture drooped a little.  “I drugged him.  He’ll be out cold for at least twelve hours.”  
   
“With what?” Pike asked curiously.  
   
McCoy shrugged, “Diphenhydramine in his tea,” he said.  “Spock’s hybrid physiology makes him especially susceptible to it.”  
   
“Where did you get that?” Pike queried.  
   
“It was in the cupboard.  It’s just a common sleep aid, really.  They must’ve forgotten to clean out the place,” McCoy said.  
   
“Huh,” Pike looked pensive for a moment, then he spoke.  “I’ll be straight with you, McCoy,” he said, “Technically, you and Spock should both be in prison for breaking and entering, and assault at the very least.  It doesn’t matter that they were the ones holding Jim.  The law’s the law.  But,” he held up his hand.  “I’ve already ‘let it slip,’ so to speak, that you were under orders—”  
   
“But we weren’t,” interrupted McCoy obliviously.  
   
“I know that!” Pike snapped.  “But for god’s sake don’t let anyone else know it.  That’s what’s keeping you out of the civilian court right now, damn it.  It’ll be an internal Starfleet investigation, which means we’ll be able to keep it under wraps and hopefully under control.  Understand?”  
   
“Yes, Sir,” said McCoy.  He hesitated, then spoke.  “What, exactly, are our chances for coming out clean?”  
   
Pike shrugged, and McCoy could see the lines of exhaustion on his haggard face.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I don’t even know what’s fully happened, so you two had better get your story together and come up with some good witnesses or something before the week’s up.”  
   
McCoy nodded.  “And Jim?”  
   
Pike raised an eyebrow.  “Jim’s fine,” he said.  “He’s not guilty of anything except for getting abducted all the damn time.”  
   
McCoy shook his head, “No,” he said.  “I know.  What I meant was, are you going to let us see him?”  
   
Pike gave him a long, hard look.  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally, opening the door.  “But no promises.”  
   
They came for them in the morning.  
   
“Commander Spock?  Dr. McCoy?” a junior grade lieutenant stood outside their doorway at oh eight hundred on the dot.  His black hair was precisely regulation, and his expression buzzed with something Jim occasionally referred to as ‘asshole level enthusiasm.’  He was so bright and clean cut it made McCoy kind of want to shove him in the nearest mud puddle just on principal.  He was also extremely tall.  
   
“That’s right,” McCoy said, scratching two days worth of beard growth and looking as slovenly as possible, possibly to make up for the extreme cleanliness of the other.  “What do you want?”  
   
The junior grade lieutenant saluted.  Crisply.  “I am to escort you and Commander Spock to the Starfleet Hospital, sir!” he said.  
   
“Oh?” McCoy said, brightening up considerably.  He looked down at Spock, who was still asleep on the couch.  “Ugh, hold on a minute, kid,” he said.  “Commander Spock’s not ready yet.”  He glanced around.  “Could you get me a glass of water for him?”  
   
“Certainly, sir,” said the kid.  He filled a glass from the sink.  “Is Commander Spock unwell?”  
   
“Nah,” McCoy said.  “Just sleeping.”  He accepted the glass. “Thanks, this’ll wake him up.”  And he unceremoniously dumped it on Spock’s head.  
   
Spock came to coughing and sputtering and glaring murderous Vulcan glares while McCoy laughed and the security officer stood by awkwardly, an expression of _Why do I always have to escort the crazy_ written all over his face.  
   
“Dr. McCoy,” Spock said icily, swinging his legs over the couch and wiping water from his eyes.  “I fail to see the logic in your actions.  What, exactly, qualified that _particularly_ distasteful method as the best one for awakening me?”  
   
McCoy slapped his knee in mirth, “Took a lot of Diphenhydramine last night,” he chortled, “Had to shock you to wake you.”  
   
Spock glowered, ”I do not recall imbibing any sleep aids last night,” he said.  
   
McCoy shrugged, “Must be slipping,” he said.  
   
Spock looked at him suspiciously.  
   
“Come on,” McCoy said, “we’re going to go see Jim.”  
   
Any trace of irritation vanished from Spock’s expression and he stood quickly.  
   
“You might want to change your shirt,” McCoy pointed out.  
   
“It is of no matter,” Spock said.  “It will dry.  Jim is waiting.”  
   
They headed for the door.  
   
As it turned out however, Jim was not waiting.  Well, not technically.  
   
“Captain Kirk is asleep,” said the orderly at the desk.  “You can come back later.”  
   
“You’re kidding,” said McCoy.  
   
“I can assure you Dr. McCoy, I’m completely serious.”  
   
“Listen Ma’am, as his personal physician I have a right to—”  
   
“You are not currently his physician, you are not currently on active duty, Dr. McCoy. So you can leave Captain Kirk to get his rest and come back later.”  
   
“I did not spend days driving around in a hovercar with a crazy Vulcan to find Jim just so I could get turned back at the hospital doors!” said McCoy.  “Come on, Spock.  We don’t have to— Spock?  Spock?” He looked at the orderly and then at Mr. tall, dark, and clean cut, who was busy picking lint off his uniform.  “Where did he go?  Spock?”  
   
The minute Spock heard that there were to be no visitors, he walked away.  Neither McCoy, embroiled in a battle to reassert his hospital dominance, nor the orderly, nor their security guard, noticed.  Spock headed up the stairs and down one of the passages at random, certain in the knowledge that no matter what, he would see Jim.  
   
Like a bloodhound following an almost invisible trail, he could sense Jim’s presence growing closer with each step.  Spock turned to the right, striding straight past a surprised nurse at his station, and into a new corridor.  Jim was here.  Spock quickened his pace, and then suddenly stopped in front of a room labeled only with a number.  He entered.  
   
The woman at the front desk had been correct.  Jim was sleeping, but to Spock that did not matter.  He quietly dragged one of the chairs over to the bedside and sunk into it, allowing himself this time, this one time, to look at his Captain fully, in peace, alone, and reassure himself of Jim’s continued likelihood of survival.  
   
Jim’s fever had been brought down to reasonable levels, and the superficial cuts and bruises and scrapes had mostly healed.  Although his torso was covered with a blanket, Spock knew there were likely bandaged ribs that, having healed crookedly whilst in captivity, had been rebroken and set again.  He was attached to several monitoring systems and had an IV drip in his arm.  He breathed slowly but steadily, and the beeping of the heart monitor beat an in time rhythm to each breath.   
   
Spock breathed too, closing his eyes briefly and attempting to reach at least the first level of meditation.  But something, something was still off.  He saw Jim, he heard his breathing, he could even smell the slight musk of him under the scent of sterilized hospital and generic brand soap , but still . . . and then he knew.  Vulcans did not touch as much as humans.   That did not mean that they did not, on occasion, need it.  Slowly, daringly, Spock took Jim’s hand in his.  
   
Jim shifted, and Spock was swamped with vague physical feelings of _warm, comfort_ , but also an undertone of _loneliness_.  
   
Spock gripped Jim’s hand tightly.  “You are not alone,” he said.  “I will not allow it.”  
   
Tentatively, he pushed his own thoughts at Jim, allowing him to feel his . . . regard for him, and his relief at his safe return.  His determination to protect him at all costs covered Jim like a shield made from a warm blanket, with iron hard will woven into the fabric, and Jim stirred.  
   
Spock stiffened, and moved to tug his hand away, but now Jim was returning his grip with a fierce grasp of his own.  Surprised at the strength in Jim’s hand, Spock ceased his efforts to free himself.  
   
“Spock?” Jim murmured, not opening his eyes.  “Spock?”  
   
“I am here, Captain,” Spock said, moving a bit closer to the bed.  
   
“I knew it was you,” Jim said drowsily.  “I always know—” and then something jolted him into further wakefulness and he gasped, trying to sit up, eyes flying open.  Spock pushed him back down into the pillows with his free hand firmly, the other one being clenched almost painfully tight by Jim.  
   
“Captain, do not try and sit up,” Spock started, but Jim shook his head, eyes wide and scared.  
   
“Where am I?”  
   
“You are at Starfleet Medical in San Francisco,” Spock said tentatively.  “You were brought here—”  
   
“But you’re Spock, right?  You’re really, really Spock?  I’m not— I’m not imagining you, right?”  
   
“I— yes, I am really Spock,” Spock said somewhat dumbly.  “Captain, you’ve been running a high fever and you must continue to rest.”  
   
But Jim was shaking his head vigorously.  “Shut up,” he interrupted, “Shut up, shut up.  Don’t talk, don’t say a damn thing, just—” his breath stuttered.  “God, you— always you, you’re always a fucking stupid—” and then Spock was being pulled down onto the bed by an alarmingly strong invalid and crushed close.   Hesitantly, Spock allowed his arms to go around Jim as far as they would go, trying to be careful not to squash him with his greater weight.  
   
Spock swallowed, “Captain?”  
   
“Don’t call me that,” Jim said, voice muffled into Spock’s shoulder.  “Not right now.  Just—”  
   
“Jim,” Spock said.  
   
Jim swallowed, “Yeah, like that.”  
   
“Jim,” Spock said again.  He could feel his shirt getting slightly damp where Jim’s face was hiding.  “Jim, are you— are you crying?”  
   
“No,” Jim said emphatically, “Fuck it, I’m not.  Just,” he struggled to both sit up and to keep holding on to Spock at the same time.  Reluctantly, Spock allowed this.  He also did not protest when Jim moved one hand to scrub it across his face and eyes.  “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse, “Sorry.  I just, I thought.”  He shrugged, miserable.  “I couldn’t _feel_ you anymore, and I thought you were dead,” his voice broke.  
   
Spock may have gripped him a little tighter.  “Could you always feel me, before?” he made himself ask.  
   
“I don’t know,” Jim admitted.  “Maybe, sometimes, yeah.  Just, when you were gone, it was like an emptiness, here,” he indicated his head.  “And I thought that was it.  That you were dead.  But then,” and his voice rose, “but then you were there again, sometimes, when I was asleep, and I thought I might finally be going crazy, but I just . . .” he trailed off.  “Nothing was right,” he said.  “I missed you.”  
   
“I—” Spock’s voice caught in his throat.  “I too, experienced, emotional difficulty,” he managed.  “I—”  
   
“Oh for fuck’s sake, just say you missed me too,” Jim said with a spark of his old self, still wiping his face with the back of his hands.  
   
Spock nodded shakily, “I missed you as well,” he said quietly.  “More than was logical for a first officer to miss his commanding officer.  More,” his voice dropped even lower, so that Jim could scarcely hear it.  “More than was logical even, for a friend to miss a friend.  Or even for a brother to miss a brother . . .”  
   
Jim’s breath hitched, and he rubbed his face in Spock’s shoulder, “Good,” he said fiercely, “I’m glad.”  
   
They stayed like that for several moments, each taking comfort in the living presence of the other.  Eventually, Spock’s posture relaxed enough so that Jim was able to pull him fully against him, and then wriggle back down to a sleeping position.  Spock had little choice but to lie down with him.  
   
“We’re going to stay like this,” Jim informed him.  “Until the doctor says we can’t.  And I am going to sleep.  And then, once I get out of here, we’re going to have a long talk about what the hell happened, okay?”  
   
“I—” Spock started, intending to explain that his presence there was only due to what could loosely be defined as a prison break.  
   
“That wasn’t a request,” Jim said.  And then he closed his eyes, and Spock could do nothing but remain his mostly willing captive.  
   
By the time McCoy, the junior grade lieutenant, and about three orderlies found them, they were greeted with the sight of a sleeping Jim Kirk with a lightly meditating Spock stretched out on the bed beside him, their hands still clasped together.  
   
McCoy let out a long suffering sigh, “I told you we should’ve just looked here in the first place,” he said.  He snagged the uniform sleeve of a frowning orderly who had started to walk toward the pair.  “Don’t,” he said.  
   
“It’s quite outside regulation,” she protested.  
   
McCoy shrugged, “Yeah, but who cares?  They’ve both been through a lot.  Let them sleep.”  
   
After a last frowning look at Kirk and Spock, she relented.  McCoy turned to their guard.  “I’m going to have a look at Jim myself,” he said.  “No use coming here just to do nothing.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go get me a cup of coffee?”  
   
“Sir,” said the junior grade lieutenant, “I am under strict orders not to leave you or Commander Spock alone.”  
   
McCoy rolled his eyes and jerked his head toward the room.  “Kid, Jim Kirk’s in that room and he’s not going anywhere.  Do you really think I’d be anywhere else?”  McCoy’s blue eyes locked with brown, and after a moment or two of a stare down, the man finally left, tossing glances over his shoulder as if to make sure McCoy was not going to vanish the moment he let him out of his sight.  
   
McCoy turned to the rest of him.  “Now,” he said.  “Anyone else have any objections they’d like to get out in the open?”  
   
As he had suspected it would be, the consensus was a resounding _no_ , and the orderlies dispersed.  Allowing himself a flicker of satisfaction at these results, McCoy let loose the smallest of smiles as he finally, _finally_ walked in through Jim Kirk’s hospital door.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
**Chapter 8**  
 ** _Two months later.  Starfleet’s Courthouse._**  
  
   
“Schin T’gai Spock.  Please stand.”   
   
Spock stood, spine straight, fingers linked behind his back.   
   
“Commander Spock, you stand accused of the following: Aggravated assault, misuse of Starfleet weaponry, telepathic assault, housebreaking, forgery, abduction of a fellow officer, absence without leave—”  
   
“Without leave?” hissed McCoy.  “What the hell, we _were_ on leave.”  
   
Their lawyer raised an elegantly up-swerved eyebrow.  “Objection, your Honor,” she said.  “The defendant states that they were on leave at the time of the incident.”  
   
“Objection sustained,” said the judge.  She looked over at the prosecutors’ table.  
   
“Commander Spock was on Medical leave, but was also being monitored as a person of interest in the case of the abduction of Captain James Kirk,” said one of the prosecutors.  He was whipcord thin and wore heavy round spectacles that made his eyes seem twice the size they should be.  “He was ordered to remain on Base or to remain accompanied by Dr. McCoy at all times.”  
   
McCoy sputtered, “A person of— he had amnesia you—”  
   
T’Sarai, their Vulcan lawyer shipped out from the Colony especially by Sarek (‘”You’re so lucky your daddy doesn’t want to see you in jail, Spock,” McCoy had said when he found out just who was going to be defending their case) spoke over him coolly.  “Dr. McCoy did accompany Commander Spock to T’Brin’s House, as well as to the stronghold of Jim Kirk’s abductors.”  
   
“As an abductee himself,” countered the prosecutor.  He crossed his arms, “Or would you rather he be accused as an accomplice?”  
   
“As neither,” said T’Sarai firmly.  She turned back towards the judge.  “Please continue reading out the accusations,” she requested.  
   
Judge Rodriguez, a heavyset woman in her mid fifties, gave a nod.  “Very well,” she said.  “In addition to destruction of private property, and conduct unbecoming of an officer and a member of Starfleet.”  
   
“Well, that’s only nine,” quipped Chekov, seated in the first row.  Uhura shushed him, gazing intently at the Court proceedings.  
   
“If found guilty, you will be dishonorably discharged from Starfleet in addition to a ten year prison sentence.”  
   
Chekov winced.  Angry mutterings broke out from the crowd sitting in the courthouse.  
   
“Understood,” said Spock.  “I plead not guilty,” he added.  
   
“Dr. Leonard McCoy,” said the judge.  “Please stand.”  He did so, hands shaking slightly.  “Dr. McCoy, you are accused of: Aggravated assault, misuse of Starfleet weaponry, housebreaking, destruction of private property, failure to obey regulations, disobeying of a direct command given by a superior officer, as well as willfully aiding and abetting Commander Spock.”  
   
“Now wait just a minute,” McCoy protested, “How can I have been abducted and willfully aiding and abetting at the same time?”  
   
“Objection sustained,” the judge said thoughtfully.  “Either Dr. McCoy was abducted and thus acted under duress, or else he was not abducted, and Commander Spock is not guilty of that particular charge.”  She looked over at the prosecutors, who were whispering among themselves.  “Well, Commodore Joachimski?”  
   
The prosecutor who had spoken before stepped forward, pushing his glasses up on his nose.  “We will strike the accusation of abduction from Commander Spock’s list of accusations, but maintain that Dr. McCoy did willfully aid him in his crimes,” he said.  
   
“Very well,” Judge Rodriguez said.  She looked back at McCoy.  “How do you plead?”  
   
“Not guilty,” said McCoy.  
   
“If found guilty by this court, you will also be dishonorably discharged from Starfleet, and will be required to serve a sentence of up to seven years.”  
   
“I understand, Ma’am,” said McCoy, throat dry, and sat back down.  
   
“Then let us proceed,” she declared.  “Prosecutors first.”  
   
Joachimski stood and came out from behind the prosecutors’ table.  “On April fourteenth of this year, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock were reported missing.  They had been scheduled to return from a backpacking trip in the Cascade Mountains of the Pacific Northwest Region earlier that day.  When they did not return on time and neither of them had been in contact with either friends or family, Dr. McCoy,” he indicated the doctor, who sat with his arms crossed, “alerted the authorities.  Search parties were sent out to the area with no success.”  As he spoke, he paced back and forth across the floor, hands clasped behind his back almost in the exact same manner that Spock himself would adopt on the bridge of the Enterprise.  
   
“On May sixteenth,” Joachimski continued, “Commander Spock was discovered unconscious and alone in the desert by five paleontologists conducting research in the area.  To be more precise, he was found approximately seventy kilometers west of the city of Delta, Utah.  He was transported to Starfleet Medical here in San Francisco, where he spent four days in the hospital before being released – although still on medical leave.  Commander Spock,” he stopped, turning to look at Spock directly.  “Commander Spock was treated for superficial bruises, cuts, and lesions, especially around his wrists, as well as dehydration and malnutrition.  For the first two days he was non communicative.  After a visit and medical consultation from two Vulcan healers, the Commander was discovered to be suffering from amnesia due to severe mental trauma – most likely inflicted under torture.  Commander Spock was referred to a specialist, Dr. Valdez—”  
   
“Who turned out to be one crazy son of a bitch,” McCoy muttered under his breath.  
   
“Whose total involvement in this case is yet to be determined,” the prosecutor continued smoothly.  “When Dr. Valdez proved to be unsuccessful in helping Commander Spock recover his memories, Dr. McCoy suggested that he and Mr. Spock visit the renowned Vulcan Healer, T’Brin.  Unfortunately, due to her age, Healer T’Brin no longer travels.  In order to meet with her, Starfleet Command agreed to allow Commander Spock to visit her under the supervision of his attending physician, Dr. McCoy.”  Joachimski paused for a moment, looking down at a PADD and fidgeting with his glasses.  “Both Healer T’Brin and her grandson Mr. Topek, have confirmed that Commander Spock and Dr. McCoy were received into their House.  Healer T’Brin has also confirmed that she melded with the Commander, and was able to assist him in the arduous process of recovering the majority of his memories.”  
   
“Now it is the juicy part of how the Commander managed to find the Captain before rest of Starfleet,” Chekov whispered.  Uhura jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.  
   
“However,” Joachimski said.  “Once his memories were recovered, rather than alerting Starfleet Command to Captain Kirk’s location, as well as to the betrayal and conspiracy of Dr. Valdez, he instead chose to solicit Dr. McCoy’s assistance and, breaking several key Starfleet codes of conduct, disappeared off the map, used his father’s name as a pseudonym, broke into private property without warrant, assaulted the people within, and set fire to the place.”  
   
“Objection your honor,” said T’Sari quickly.  “It has been determined that the fire was due to a handheld explosive of non-Starfleet origins.”  
   
“Like we’d really be stupid enough to use handheld explosives in a wooden house,” growled McCoy.  
   
“Objection sustained,” said the judge.  “They have not been accused of arson.”  She looked towards the prosecutors.  “Will that be all?”  
   
“For now,” said the prosecutor.  He sat down, placing his PADD gently on the wooden table in front of him.   
   
Judge Rodriguez raised an eyebrow at T’Sarai.  “The defense may approach the stand,” she said.  
   
T’Sarai stood.  “The prosecutor’s sequence of events is correct,” she began.  “However, he is also missing crucial information.”  
   
Joachimski opened his mouth to retort, but T’Sarai barreled over him in a manner somewhat akin to a windshield coming into contact with a mosquito.  
   
“The prosecutor has not taken into account that Commander Spock cannot be held accountable for his actions due simply to the fact that at the time, he was being mentally influenced through the affects Dr. Valdez’s modified mind sifter.  In addition—”  
   
“Objection, said Joachimski, voice rising, “Commander Spock himself has stated that he became aware of Valdez’s machinations during his healing meld with Healer T’Brin.”  
   
“If I may,” T’Sarai requested.  
   
Judge Rodriguez waved a hand.  “Objection sustained, but go ahead.”  
   
“Commander Spock’s precise words from his report, taken under oath, were as follows:” She produced a small recording device and set it down on the table.  It began to speak, Spock’s monotone echoing throughout the courtroom.  
   
 _“During the meld with Healer T’Brin, I became aware that the attempts of the shadow man to convince me to bring Dr. McCoy to him with Captain Kirk as bait, had the unintentional consequence of causing his mind to become loosely linked with my own.  If not for the efforts of the Captain, with whom I had previously melded on several occasions in the line of duty, it is possible my psyche would have become completely overrun due to the modified mind sifter.  Instead, Captain Kirk was able to anchor me with his own mind.  Unfortunately, the mental ‘tug of war’ – to borrow a human idiom – proved to be too much, and I lost consciousness.  When I regained both consciousness and lucidity, a mental block had formed on those links and the associated memories– in other words, the amnesia – due to the combined trauma of unintended, conflicting mental links, and torture.”_    She clicked off the device and stored it again in her pocket.  
   
The audience murmured.  Tears pricked at the corner of Uhura’s eyes.  From her other side, Sulu absently handed her an extra tissue, and blew his own nose.  
   
T’Sarai tapped the PADD she held in her hand thoughtfully, then spun to face the jury – hand picked by the admiralty that very morning.   
   
“Even with a healing meld, memories cannot always be recalled perfectly,” she said.  “In his statement, Commander Spock referred to Dr. Valdez as ‘the shadow man.’  The prosecutor said himself that Commander Spock had met with Valdez during his recovery.  Commander Spock,” she said suddenly.  
   
“Yes?” Spock said.  
   
“When did you become aware that, ‘the shadow man’ – responsible for your and Captain Kirk’s abduction and subsequent mistreatment – was the same person as your Starfleet appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Valdez?”  
   
“When he appeared to us at the house where Captain Kirk and I had been held hostage,” Spock replied.   
   
“Objection,” said the prosecutor.  “How can we be certain he is telling the truth?”  
   
“Are you accusing Commander Spock of perjury?” the judge asked, somewhat incredulously.   
   
There was a bit of an outcry, mostly from the members of the Enterprise crew, and the judge smacked the gavel several times.  
   
“Order!” she said.  “This is a court-martial, not daytime holovision.”  
   
“I am willing to submit myself to a meld to prove my statement,” Spock said, voice strong.  
   
Judge Rodriguez eyed him carefully.  “You won’t have to, Commander,” she said after a moment.  “It is well known that Vulcans cannot lie.  Objection dismissed.  Counselor T’Sarai, you may continue.”  
   
T’Sarai nodded, turning back to Spock.  “And before Dr. Valdez revealed himself to you and Dr. McCoy?”  
   
“Before that time, his face appeared muted in my mind.  I have consulted with Healer T’Brin on the matter, and she believed it to be due in part to the unintentional link between us.  I believe that Healer T’Brin did mention that fact in her statement to Starfleet.”  
   
T’Sarai nodded.  “You are correct,” she said.  “And are you still linked to Dr. Valdez?”  
   
“No,” Spock said heavily, “Once I was able to meld directly with Dr. Valdez, I severed the link in order to both prevent him from shooting Dr. McCoy, and to prevent further damage to my own mind.  Unfortunately, he was unable to sustain the shock and his mind collapsed.”  He continued to look straight ahead as the courtroom grew loud with whispers, some angry, some excited.  
   
T’Sarai ignored the reaction.  “And what can you tell us about this, ‘shadow man?’”?  
   
Spock closed his eyes briefly.  “Once Healer T’Brin lifted the block on my mind, I recalled a brief, confusing – unintentional on his part, I am completely certain – immersion into his.  During that time I was able to ascertain that the abduction of Captain Kirk and myself was originally a mistake – he had received information that Dr. McCoy would be travelling with us.”  
   
“He was unaware of Dr. McCoy’s sudden change in plans,” T’Sarai said.  
   
“Indeed,” Spock agreed.  “However, he had enough resources to formulate a new plan – one that culminated in myself luring Dr. McCoy into Valdez’s hands by setting me free, but keeping Captain Kirk hostage as a method of assuring my return.”  
   
“And if you were aware that your journey to Captain Kirk was a trap, why did you not simply contact Starfleet with the information, as according to Starfleet Regulations, the prosecutor is suggesting you should have?”  
   
Spock’s eyes blazed and if possible, he sat up even straighter.  “When I shared his mind, I learned that he was a member of Starfleet.  Without full knowledge as to his identity, I could not be sure if the conspiracy was isolated or not.  I was not willing to risk Captain Kirk’s life on the possibility that Dr. Valdez was simply a discontented low ranking officer with a grudge against Dr. McCoy.  In addition, he had the resources to abduct and hold two Starfleet officers, as well as acquire a modified mind sifter.  In my opinion that was evidence enough to suspect that his rank was high enough to hear anything about new knowledge of Captain Kirk’s whereabouts.”  
   
“And it seems you were correct to do so – was he not, Admiral Pike?”  
   
The admiral looked surprised for a moment at being addressed out of the blue, but then gave a curt nod, “Valdez would have been informed of any change in Spock’s mental status,” he affirmed.  “Including the return of his memories, and the information they contained.”  
   
“In short,” T’Sarai asserted, “Commander Spock was unable to inform Starfleet of his knowledge due to suspected conspiracy and corruption within the ranks of Starfleet itself.  If he informed Starfleet and the information reached the wrong ears – as top secret information is wont to do – he was aware that Captain Kirk’s life was forfeit.  Rather than take that risk, he decided to risk his own career and freedom to rescue Captain Kirk.  A rescue, I might add, which was entirely successful.”  
   
“Successful except for the eleven injured parties and millions of credits worth of damage to a historical farmhouse,” Joachimski interjected.  “Your honor—”  
   
“Criminals who were assisting Valdez in holding Captain Kirk captive,” T’Sarai shot back.  
   
“Enough,” interrupted Judge Rodriguez.  “Are you finished?” she asked T’Sarai.  
   
T’Sarai raised her chin.  “Not yet,” she said.  
   
“All right,” the judge said wearily, “but make it quick.”  
   
“I shall endeavor to do so, Your Honor,” said T’Sarai.  She gazed around the room, “Starfleet is known as a peace keeping armada,” she said quietly.  “However, I know firsthand that its members also see their share of battle.  Is it not true that officers of Starfleet are often soldiers as well as diplomats, warriors for the Federation, as well as scientists and explorers?”  
   
There were more than a few scattered nods around the room.  It was a Starfleet sanctioned court martial after all, and nearly everyone present could identify with her words.  
   
“Lassie’s laying it on thick,” murmured Scotty into Chekov’s ear.  “I didn’t know Vulcans could _do_ that.”  
   
“Soldiers are asked to do many things in the line of duty,” T’Sarai said.  “Things that, if they were not sanctioned by Starfleet, would be considered crimes.  Crimes like manslaughter, assault, destruction of property – crimes of the sort that Commander Spock and Dr. McCoy stand here accused of today!”  
   
“Objection!” cried Joachimski.  “While your storytelling is very touching, the fact remains that Commander Spock and Dr. McCoy acted without orders, and so their actions are considered crimes!”  
   
“I object to your objection!” came a new voice.  James Kirk stepped into a suddenly silent room.  “Am I allowed to do that?” he asked after a moment.  
   
Judge Rodriguez shrugged helplessly.  “Why not?” she said.  She blinked, “Are you here for a reason?”  
   
“Of course,” Kirk said.  He walked slowly into the room, mindful of his still aching ribs.  “I’m the witness.” And he plunked down in the chair.  
   
The room erupted in a buzz of conversation.  Kirk turned to wink at Spock and McCoy.  McCoy showed him the finger.  
   
“Captain Kirk is called to the stand as a witness,” Rodriguez said after a moment’s pause.  
   
McCoy leaned over to Spock.  “That asshole should not even be on this planet.  Didn't Nogura send him somewhere?”  
   
T’Sarai ‘s eyes gleamed triumphantly.  “Captain Kirk,” she said, circling towards him like a cat about to pounce.  “You stated that you, ‘objected to the prosecutor’s objection,’ is that correct?”  
   
“That’s right,” said Kirk.  
   
“And what, precisely, did you object to?”  
   
Kirk titled his head, “A lot of things,” he said, smiling.  Then his face grew serious, “But mostly to the accusation that Commander Spock and Dr. McCoy acted without orders.”  
   
“Are you suggesting then, that they were, in fact, acting under orders?” T’Sarai asked innocently.  
   
“Of course,” Kirk said.  
   
“Under whose orders?” T’Sarai prodded.  
   
“Under mine,” Kirk said, crossing his arms.  “Obviously.”  
   
“Objection,” said Joachimski.  “Captain Kirk was missing and unable to communicate at the time.  How could he have given Dr. McCoy or Commander Spock any orders?”  
   
“Objection sustained,” said Rodriguez tonelessly.  “Well?” she asked Kirk.  
   
Kirk scowled.  “The Commander and I spent a month in captivity together before Valdez freed him,” he informed her.  “I gave him the orders during that time, and requested that he pass them on to Dr. McCoy.  I mean, obviously there was a bit of a delay because of the amnesia thing, but I’d say it all worked out.”  
   
Rodriguez spoke.  “And what, precisely, were the orders you gave Commander Spock?”  
   
Kirk smiled, showing teeth.  “Emergency orders— I told him to help get us out,” he said.  
   
“Under Starfleet Code Section 5A, subsection III, paragraph twenty two, it is stated that, ‘Commanding officers have the power to rescind shore leave privileges either due to misconduct of the personnel in question, or under threat of emergency,’” T’Sarai jumped in.  “Commander Spock’s shore leave was revoked by Captain Kirk due to emergency.  Therefore, Commander Spock was issued emergency orders by Captain Kirk while he was on duty.  In addition, Starfleet Code Section 5A, subsection IV, paragraph three states that emergency orders given by ranks Commander and above are to receive priority over standard Starfleet operating procedure – unless the emergency orders are rescinded by a person holding the rank of Admiral.”  
   
“In other words,” Kirk said, turning a brittle gaze on the prosecutor’s table, “Unless Commander Spock or Dr. McCoy were given explicit orders by an Admiral— which they _weren’t_ , my emergency orders trump all, and you no longer have a case.”  
   
“He is way too smug,” muttered McCoy to Spock.  “And don’t look so helplessly infatuated, it’s a bad look on you.”  
   
“I am not—” Spock denied, but was interrupted by the slamming of the gavel.  
   
“The jury will deliberate,” Rodriguez said, rubbing her temples.  “We will reconvene in one hour.”  
   
And that was that.  
   
The results were fairly predictable.  Despite the grumblings of about the one eighth of Starfleet that did not have a massive crush on the entire crew of the Enterprise, the jury found both McCoy and Spock innocent enough to drop the charges – McCoy simply because he was apparently acting under orders, and Spock because he was both acting under orders _and_ was possibly being unduly influenced through no fault of his own.

\--------------------------------------------------------------  
   
“I cannae believe ye got off scot free,” said Scotty.  He reached for another slice of bread, dunked it in a mixture of olive oil and vinegar, and shoved it into his mouth.  “Brilliant.”  
   
“All thanks to Captain Golden Boy of Starfleet,” McCoy said cheerfully.  “That and, T’Sarai, maybe.  I’m thinking she could rule an empire of lawyers.”  He was already on his fourth glass of wine – one for each course of their celebratory meal – and his cheeks were red with merriment and alcohol.  “Where is Jim, anyway?  Have you seen him?”  He looked around the room, but Pike’s home was so full of well-wishers and colleagues wanting to celebrate Kirk and Spock’s safe return and recovery, that he could hardly see through the crush of bodies.  
   
“I saw him with the Commander about five minutes ago,” said Scotty.  He snagged a cookie off a passing plate and bit into it with gusto.  “Said they were going to go get some fresh air or sommat.”  
   
“Huh,” McCoy said.  And then he grinned and slung an arm around Scotty’s shoulders.  “Well, more for us then, right?”  
   
“Aye,” said Scotty, giving him a pat on the back.  “Anyway, I’m sure they’ll be back.”  
   
“Oh sure,” said McCoy, a strange glimmer in his eyes.  He blinked at his suddenly empty glass of wine.  “Want to go get another?” he offered.  
   
“Of course!” Scotty crowed, and the pair lurched off to refill their glasses.  
   
Since he had been permanently grounded, Admiral Pike’s backyard had been slowly transforming from a wild jungle to a slightly more manageable garden.  Jim Kirk sat quietly on a bench at the far end of it.  A butterfly bush stretched over his head, and around his feet there was an abundance of moss and ferns.  Spock sat down next to him, not close enough to touch, but enough so that Kirk could feel the heat of his body, radiating out into the night.  
   
Eventually, Kirk broke the silence.  “I really thought you were dead you know,” he said.   
   
“Yes,” Spock said.  “I know.”  
   
Kirk let out a breath.  “Sometimes I dreamt about you, and it didn’t make sense, but other times it was like you were really there.”  He shifted so he was closer to Spock, gently touching his hand.  “I felt it when you found the link,” he said quietly.  He gave a small laugh, almost a hiccup.  “I thought I was going crazy.”  
   
“I know,” Spock repeated.  He twisted so that he and Kirk were facing one another.  “I am truly sorry,” he breathed.  
   
“Yeah,” Kirk said, “So am I.”  He dropped his gaze.  “But at the same time, I’m— I’m not you know?  Because I have,” and his fingers found Spock’s fingers, “Because I have you, you know?  Right?”  
   
Spock swallowed.  “Starfleet,” he said, his voice catching in his throat, “Starfleet frowns on sexual relationships between commanding officers.”  
   
Jim looked up, frowning.  “Is that what you think I want?” he said, and Spock could not bear the hurt in his voice, “Sex?”  
   
Spock’s resolve crumbled, “No,” he said.  “I mean, I—” then he blinked, cocking his head, “Wait, do you not?  I thought . . . ” he trailed off, years of insecurities choking his voice.   
   
But Kirk was shaking his head slowly, and chuckling, “You’re an idiot,” he said in the gentlest way possible.  He tugged him closer by the arm, one hand coming up to trace the outline of Spock’s face, his strong jaw and cheekbones, his lips.  “Of course I do,” he murmured, nearly into Spock’s mouth.  Spock could smell the mint chocolate chip ice cream he had consumed earlier that evening.— Jim’s favorite flavor.  “It’s just that, I think there’s so much more than just that.”  
   
“The link,” Spock said.  He was finding it hard to breath with Jim so close, his scent overwhelming Spock’s senses.  Their hands were still touching.  
   
“That’s part of it,” Jim said.  He began to trace the outline of Spock’s eyebrows as he spoke.  “But you’re, you know.” He shrugged somewhat helplessly, as if there were not enough words in the language to explain.  “It’s just, the world’s not right without you, you know?”  Spock was struck by how the usually articulate Jim seemed to be so at loss.  He spoke, his voice soft like a rare mist over the desert.  
   
“In my mind, you are a river,” he said.  Jim titled his head quizzically.  “And like the river, you— you irrigate my thoughts, you are essential, you—”  
   
“Oh, just shut up and kiss me,” Kirk said, and hauled him forward by the back of the neck until their lips met and Spock was drowning in the possession and claiming and relief and love in their touch.  One hand slid under Jim’s shirt, stroking his back, while the other remained clasped together with Jim’s.  Jim’s hands were at his shoulders, then touching his face, then gently massaging his arms.  Touching everywhere, as if he could not get enough of Spock, as if he had always wanted to touch him this way, to feel his heart race beneath his fingertips, his breath grow labored through his nose as they kissed.  
   
They broke the kiss, breathing quickly.  Spock felt his pulse racing.  Jim’s cheeks were flushed, his pupils dilated.  
   
“Starfleet,” Spock managed, “Starfleet would definitely not approve.”  
   
“Oh, they can just go fuck themselves,” Kirk said fiercely.  He pulled Spock in for another kiss.  This time when they parted, he said, “We’ll be in space, Spock, and we’ll,” he stole another kiss at the corner of Spock’s mouth, “we’ll figure this out, whatever it is.  We’ll figure _us_ out, Spock.  And this link, and everything.  And they won’t,” Spock made the first move this time, lips moving over Jim’s as if he were desperately trying to kiss to Jim’s very core, the center of his being.  “They won’t be able to stop us,” he finished hoarsely.  “They won’t.  Not in this.”  
   
“No,” Spock agreed, his voice deeper than usual.  “They will not.  We will have this.”  
   
After a final, lingering kiss, they settled together on the bench.  With their shoulders touching this time, hands still tangled together, they tilted back their faces to watch the night sky.  
   
   
   
   
   
 **Epilogue**  
   
 **Four** **months later.  Earth.**  
   
“Shore leave on Earth again, Spock,” Kirk said.  He jumped up on the beaming platform.  Spock stepped up sedately beside him, all lean lines and sleek uniform.  “Although I’ve got to admit, after what happened last time—”  The lieutenant at the controls pulled something and Jim started to dematerialize midsentence.  They rematerialized in San Francisco’s busy spaceport, Jim opening up his mouth almost as soon as he had one, “—I’m not exactly thrilled about it this time.”  
   
Spock picked up the luggage that appeared beside him, “The chances of again being kidnapped by a mentally unbalanced extremist whilst on shore leave on a main Federation planet are exceeding low,” he informed him.  
   
“Right,” Kirk said, smiling slightly.  “And that’s exactly why you’ve insisted that we’re staying right here in San Francisco the whole time.”  
   
“It does no harm to be cautious,” Spock said haughtily.  They headed for the exit, hailing a cab.  
   
“Starfleet,” Kirk requested, as they shoved their bags into the back.  
   
“Sure thing,” said the man at the wheel.  Traffic was low and the ride was short.  Midmorning light shone through gaps in the clouds, and Spock bundled himself further into his coat as they stepped out from the cab and into the crisp February air.  Kirk paid the cab driver, who drove off quickly back in the direction of the spaceport.  
   
“We really should get an apartment or something,” Kirk said conversationally as they began the long slog up the hill towards visiting officers’ temporary quarters.  “These places are the worst.”  
   
“They are not the worst,” Spock chided, “They are—” he stopped so suddenly that Kirk almost ran straight into him.  
   
“Spock?” Kirk queried, shifting his bag from one hand to the other.  Spock was staring at something.  “You okay?”  
   
“It’s them,” Spock said quietly.   
   
Kirk blinked.  “Um, who?” he said.  
   
Spock pointed.  Across the street, a woman and her three young children were walking slowly away from the Starfleet complex.  Kirk could see flyaway streaks of blond hair that had been wrestled free from the confines of her winter hat by the wind.  
   
“Uh, the lady and her kids?” he asked hesitantly.  
   
“Yes,” Spock said.  He stood as if rooted to the ground, unable to take his gaze from them.  
   
Kirk furrowed his brow, stepping closer to Spock.  “Do you know them?”  
   
Spock turned to him, and Kirk was alarmed to see actual, visible anguish in his eyes.  “Those are Valdez’s children,” he said.  “I saw them, in his mind.”  
   
“Oh,” Kirk said, at loss for anything better.  He clasped Spock’s shoulder.  “They must be coming back from the high security ward of the hospital.”  
   
Spock nodded jerkily, “It is my fault,” he said, “It’s my fault that they must be here, that they no longer have a father . . .”  
   
“Spock, no,” Kirk said firmly, turning him around.  He cupped Spock’s face in his gloved hands.  “You can’t blame yourself for that, okay?  You said it yourself: the man was mentally unbalanced and a fanatic.  You did what you had to do to protect me, and Bones, and yourself, okay?  You shouldn’t regret that.  He did terrible things, to you, to me.  But maybe his kids, maybe they’ll do something good.  Something they wouldn’t have done if he were still around, you know?”  
   
Spock swallowed, his gaze still tracking the remnants of Valdez’s family as they vanished around a corner.  Finally, he tore himself away, back to Kirk’s concerned face, the familiar contours of his mouth and eyes.  
   
“You are correct,” he said heavily.   
   
“It’s going to take time,” Kirk said, looping his arm through Spock’s, heedless of anyone who might be watching.  
   
“I have had time,” Spock replied.  
   
“Then it’s gonna take more,” Kirk said resolutely.  He looked both ways for curious eyes, then reached up and brushed a quick kiss across Spock’s mouth.  “Come on,” he said, stepping back, a smile crinkling at the corners of his lips.  “Let’s go see how many mouse traps Starfleet’s put in our rooms this time.”  
   
He headed towards the building again, tugging Spock along behind him.  Spock followed willingly, his gloved fingers caressing Kirk’s in a Vulcan kiss as they walked.  
   
 **The End**

 


End file.
